


Truths That He Learned

by gala_apples



Series: Rentverse [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Pencey Prep
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Break Up, Coming Out, Drunk Sex, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marijuana, Other, Problems Bottoming, Rave, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Frank's senior year, and it seems like he's constantly having new experiences, at least half of which come as a complete surprise to him. He falls in love, comes out, and has sex, not necessarily in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truths That He Learned

Sometimes Frank hates the shit out of his friends. It’s not often, but when it comes on it’s strong. Grama always calls him the mercurial one, and when compared to all his cousins he can see that. But to him it’s much simpler than being diagnosed with mood swings. Frank just thinks sometimes his friends or relatives are assholes, and when they are he’s perfectly in his right to hate them. It doesn’t matter if it’s because Alice, who is actually month younger than him, just took the last spot at the adult table and now he has to sit at the kiddie table, or if it’s because Shaun totally spoilered Watchman because he’s read the comics and Frank is more a movie guy. When people are assholes, they’re assholes, and they deserve any and all possible wrath.

In this case all of his friends are assholes. They’ve called him literally non-stop for the last hour. He had to switch it to vibrate because the constant snippet of Misfits was driving him crazy. Of course, the better choice probably would have been to power his phone down altogether, because the buzz of it shuddering across his desk like a worm on crack isn’t much better. But he’s a teenager and shutting it off seems unfathomable so instead he’s trying to ignore it.

Out of curiosity, Frank picks it up. Missed calls: 183. Fucking ridiculous. None of them have left messages. They must just be waiting out the three rings, hanging up, and telling the next person to call. He’s got multiple calls from each of them, the same eight numbers repeat like writing lines in grade school. Which is stupid, because it’s not like the separate numbers will convince him they’re each alone in their various houses, desperate to discuss something. He knows they’re all together, he knows what they want, and they’re all idiots for thinking he’s going to bow down.

And that’s when the house phone rings. Frank swears and bolts for the stairs, cursing more as his socks slip on the wooden stairs. The runner looked like you could catch a disease from putting your foot on it, so they tossed it a few weeks ago, but it hasn’t been replaced and now he’s going to topple down the entire flight and die, just because his friends are assholes that don’t know how to listen at school, and don’t know how to infer a fucking meaning from someone ignoring calls.

By the time he makes it halfway down, he can already hear his mom talking to whomever it is. Going into the kitchen now will only make it worse. She’ll hand the phone over to him and be shocked if he calls whoever it is a fucking cunt, and after the phone is hung up she’ll want to know why he made someone call the house phone if he knew he was going to get a call. Frank turns and stomps back up the stairs.

He’s sprawled on his bed when she stands at the foot of the stairs and screams up them that his friends will be here in ten minutes, they want you ready to leave. Frank snorts and flips off the air. Ready to leave his fucking ass, they’ll have to drag him out kicking and screaming. If it was just Frank and his dad, he wouldn’t be worried about it. The doorbell is broken and none of the guys can possibly knock loud enough to be heard over the big screen tv playing endless football. Unfortunately it’s his mom, which means the door is probably already propped open as a sign of welcome. It’s an alliance between his friends, his mom, and the world. They’re all colluding to make him miserable.

Frank can hear them when they come in. Not so much for the slammed door or the sound of eight people crowding into a front hall. Instead it’s his mom, cooing about how good they all look. Fuck his fucking life. Christ.

And then they’re all in his room. Okay, so maybe they do look really good. Shaun and John and Neil and Tim are all wearing suit shirts and pressed pants and ties. Kelly and Claire and Tina are wearing dresses, and Zoe’s in pressed pants and suspenders and a dress shirt that matches John’s perfectly. Frank is man enough to admit that his friends look really fucking amazing. That in no way means he wants to be one of them. Which he explains, sort of. “Fuck off.”

“Dude, we’ll fuck off in a second. You just need to stand up, ‘cause you’re fucking off with us.”

“No, seriously. Fuck off. I’m not going.”

“You might like it!” Tina exclaims. Frank is not even going to try to dignify that with a response.

“Do we really need to wrestle you out of your bed? Because none of us want that.” Neil crosses his arms and Frank mutters _I could take you_ , half into his pillow. He’s so full of crap, Neil’s like a foot taller than he is. Kindly Neil doesn’t point out his bullshit, just goes on, “We’d wrinkle our nicely ironed clothes, you’d get broken to pieces, we’d thud onto the floor and your mom would shout questions from the bottom of the stairs. Nobody’d win.”

Which, true as it might be, still isn’t enough to make Frank get off his bed.

“Look, we’ll make a deal.” This perks Frank up a bit. John’s always making weird ass deals and bets, hardly ever caring if he wins or not. Betting with John could be a great out. “If you can think of eight reasons why you shouldn’t go to homecoming, one for each of us, we won’t take you.”

Frank sits up and readjusts his shirt from where it hiked up during his justified pouting. “Deal. I don’t have a date. I don’t have an outfit. I don’t have a flower. I don’t have a ticket. I don’t know how to dance. I don’t like the music they’ll play. I won’t like the company there.”

Claire smirks. “That’s seven. Suck it the fuck up.” Shit. He should have counted on his fingers as he was listing them off.

“Also they’re all invalid reasons. We knew you’d do this, so we all chipped in and got you a ticket.”

Frank crosses his arms. “I’m not paying you back.”

“It was fifteen bucks between eight people, I’m sure we’ll survive. And of course you’ll like the company, we’re the company.” Claire smiles, teeth gleaming white against her mocha lips. She’s had her braces off for six months, and now she smiles almost every second of the day. Frank can’t really blame Neil for falling in love with her, she’s got a great smile.

“If you don’t tell us where your dress clothes are, we’ll ask your mom.”

Fucking Neil and his fucking threats. The last thing he wants is to get his mom involved in this horrorshow. “They’re in my closet, asshole.”

“What do you think, Tina? Buttercup or navy?”

“I am not wearing motherfucking yellow to homecoming. I will jump out of the fucking car first.” There have to be lines, goddamn it.

“Drama queen says no buttercup.”

“Yeah, I heard him.” The shirt comes flying at him, the buttoned sleeve hitting him in the face before crumpling to his lap. Unfortunately the hanger doesn't skewer a limb. It would be painful, but it would be a truly valid excuse for not doing this. Frank strips off his t-shirt and tosses it to the laundry basket that’s in the corner of his room. He undoes enough buttons that he can slip it over his head, and stands, waiting for Tim to chuck the pants at him. There’s no sense of embarrassment about changing in front of them. Boxers are no different than swimming trunks. He doesn’t even own a pair of briefs, and he plans to laugh straight in their faces if they say something equivalent to pantyline.

“So I’ve got the fucking outfit. But you’re telling me I also have a stupid flower thing for my lack of date?"

“A corsage,” Tim adds helpfully.

“Whatever the fuck. A corsage then.”

“No, most people don’t have fifty dollar flowers in their fridge. But since it’s not prom, it doesn’t matter. And what you talkin’ about, lack of date? We’re your dates!” Frank rolls his eyes at John. Four couples and him. Great.

Twenty minutes later they’re in the school, listening to some jerkoff think he’s DJing because he’s playing a burnt CD of top forty songs.

“So, is this as awful as you thought it was going to be?” Zoe asks, voice a bit panting from the speed at which she’s grinding against John. If Frank crossed his eyes he wouldn’t be able to tell which one was which, they’re the same height and weight. He finds it sort of funny that John’s gonna end up marrying a girl his female clone, but if it works for him, it’s not like Frank’s going to try to break them up.

“No it’s not as as awful as I thought it was gong to be.”

“See! I-”

Frank cuts off Tina’s triumphant words. “It’s worse. Look at this place. There’s crap dangling from the ceiling.”

“It’s crepe paper,” Zoe informs him from her muffled position against John’s neck.

“It’s seaweed,” Tina corrects.

“In what fucking world is this seaweed?” Frank inches a bit closer to the exit, like he could actually escape without his friends getting pissed at him, and in the process gets tangled by a low hanging strand. It’s with no little satisfaction that he rips it down.

“Use your imagination!”

Frank isn’t even going to start on how the poster paper seahorses on the wall look like they want to eat his soul, not if Tina was apparently on the decorating committee without any of them knowing. “And we’re surrounded by assholes that actually care about beating the Tigers.”

“It was the Badgers.” There is no eyebrow in the world large enough to raise at Kelly. “What? My brother’s on our team, I have to know these things.”

“Frankie, very few people give anything remotely resembling a crap.” Shaun informs him. “It’s an excuse to dance to music you tell your friends you hate without being mocked, and to stealthfully drink from flasks.”

“Someone brought a flask? Who has it? I need it to live, I’m not even joking. Right now.” Frank cannot possibly do this without the aid of alcohol. The bowl he smoked in John’s car with him and Zoe and Tim and Kelly, mostly as a consolation prize, is rapidly fading from his consciousness. The nice haze covering his brain is being eaten by fucking Kesha. Ke$ha. Whatever, having random symbols instead of letters should mean you’re not allowed in the music industry. Like the entire record when Pink was P!nk.

It’s not much of a surprise when instead of coming out of one of the guy’s pockets, one of the folds in Claire’s dress turns out to be a pocket big enough to conceal a flask. Claire is fucking bad ass. Really, all of his friends girlfriends are pretty cool. If Frank had a Claire or Zoe, he might have gone to homecoming without coaxing.

“I’m drinking like all of this. Consider it your punishment for making me do this for the next three hours.” With that said, Frank unscrews the lid and takes a sip of the vanilla flavoured vodka. It’s going to be a long fucking night.

*

Frank has a pretty basic weekend routine. Basically he just tries to do all the things he loves and can’t really do during the week. The weekend is for rest and relaxation, so sayeth the education system, and Frank plans to take them up on it for as long as he can.

The first important part of his day is when after waking up needing to piss -Frank has both an irritatingly small bladder and a penchant for drinking a Slurpee from the Sev across the street before bed- he can stumble to the bathroom, take a whiz, and stumble back to bed, all without opening his eyes. Sitting down to pee doesn’t make him a girl, it makes him not have to gain any sort of measurable consciousness. The warm spot hasn’t even dissipated by the time he crawls back under the covers. He always gets straight back to sleep.

When he wakes up for real, the first order of business is to get stoned. Frank doesn’t smoke often during the week. Only half his friends smoke, and while Neil and Shaun don’t really care, Tina freaks out, so they can’t smoke if all nine of them are hanging out. It’s just a lot easier to save it for the weekend, when he can chill with Hambone and Timmy, or enjoy it alone. He likes to smoke a bowl and go back to bed so he can daydream. Sometimes it’s stuff like what would he write on college applications if he could be honest instead of writing what’s going to get him into the schools he wants. Sometimes he thinks of lyrics, and what they might really mean. Sometimes he writes entire plots to horror movies. Whatever it is, it’s his brain-time, and he loves it.

He’ll eventually really get up, change into his outfit of a hoodie and pyjama bottoms so old all the flannel has worn off and go online to find new Youtube videos to impress friends with. At various intervals he’ll eat, or clomp to the garage to smoke a cigarette. Which is hypocritical if you ask him, because both his parents smoke inside, but they say they’re preparing him for real life which means only smoking outdoors completely secluded, and it’s their house, their rules. He might watch a movie, or carry multiple conversations on MSN, or go for a run. Okay, so the only things that makes weekends different from a weekday are the pot and the sleeping in. But those are his favourite parts, so whatever.

Frank’s day gets to a poor start when on his way to the kitchen to grab a bagel his mom calls him from the living room. Usually his parents are content to leave him alone, so if either wants to talk that means he sort of has to go talk to them. Which would be fine on a weekday, but stoned talks tend to not be good things. Whether he's being yelled at or discussed with about his opinion on something on the radio, he still has to pull. Luckily he’s normally rambley so they never really notice.

“So when your friends were over we noticed something.”

They’ve waited an entire week to bring this up, which means they probably asked for advice about it at church before deciding to approach him. Which means it’s something that they think might piss him off, which means it’s probably a fucking ‘what are you going to do with your life’ conversation. Shit. Annoyed or not he really should have come downstairs to intervene on any sort of conversation his friends might have had with his parents. Even if he couldn’t have stopped it, he could have at least prepared for it. Frank really doesn’t want to have the ‘I have no idea what my major will be’ conversation again. He’s either too stoned or not stoned enough for this, it’s too early to tell.

“Frank, all your friends have girlfriends. Is there something you’ve been hiding from us?”

What? “What? No.”

“We won’t judge her, Frank. Even if she’s not Catholic. We understand struggling with finding the path to God at this age.” Considering Frank’s parents haven’t forced him to go to church in three years, he’d say it’s less a path and more a diversion in traffic around a mess of construction. He believes in some sort of Him, he’s just sketchy on the details, he still needs to pour the concrete.

“It’s not that. I really don’t have a girlfriend.” On one hand, this is awkward as hell. On the other, at least it’s not the ‘you’re wasting money if you don’t have a major’ conversation.

“Why not? Are you concerned you won’t be able to be celibate?”

Okay, the answer is definitely not stoned enough. This is why Frank gets along with his dad much better when he’s watching television. “What? No. I just haven’t found the right girl yet.”

“We can help. We’ll set you up with a girl from church.” Seriously, how has his life turned into this so quickly?

Frank doesn’t have epic battles with his parents. He’s not Timmy, where screaming at each other followed by slammed doors is the norm. But he’s not a goodie-goodie either, not quite Tina, who is taking all the courses her parents asked her to instead of what she enjoys. There’s no reason for him to go ridiculously out of his way to please them when no matter what he does they’ll still love him.

That being said, Frank’s also old enough to know when to cut his losses. It’s far _far_ easier to agree to be set up than it is to try and explain why it’s a lame idea. Also, Frank is an optimist. There’s a chance that whoever this girl is, she could be his true love. He hasn’t been to church in three years, he has no idea which girls go there. There might be someone perfect waiting for him, and he just doesn’t know it because he can’t or doesn’t want to sit still through a sermon.

“Sure. Okay, I guess. Just-”

“No dogs.” Frank is grateful that his mom is smacking his dad for that, because he can’t hit his parents, but that’s not okay to say. And it wasn’t what he was going to say. He didn’t even know what he was going to say, he just. There’s just something about this that feels uncomfortable. Beyond his parents being the instigators, even, which is pretty fucked up. But he’s going to chalk it up to thoughts and feelings tainted with pot, because there’s no real reason to be weirded out.

“So we’re good? I can go grab breakfast now?”

“Frank, it’s two pm.” Which means yes. Frank escapes to the kitchen, where the hardest thing to think about is blueberry or pumpkin. It’s the weekend, he’s not meant to think or feel.

*

His date is Wednesday, after school. Frank’s supposed to meet her at a diner. A freaking diner, like his life isn’t already pathetically nineteen fifties enough. Shaun could see in his face Monday before home room that something had happened, and they’d all known by lunch. He’s had three days of mocking, and by the time he walks in the small restaurant he’s already feeling like a fucking idiot for ever agreeing to this. Just because he didn’t have a reason prepared for why he didn’t have a girlfriend didn’t mean he couldn’t have come up with one on the spot. He’s not quite Nate Novarro, who, as far as Frank can tell, has never had a single piece of homework ready on time since junior high, but always has a brilliant excuse. But surely any conversation with his parents full of lies would have been better than the hundreds of things Neil and Kelly have pointed out could go wrong on this date.

He squirms his back so his backpack is sitting better on his shoulders as he gazes around the diner. Blond hair, he’s supposed to be looking for a girl with blond hair. There are a few, but there’s only one that’s sitting by herself.

Frank walks up to the table. “I’m Frank?” It shouldn’t be a question, it’s not like he may or may not be Frank. He just hasn’t really done this before. He’s not sure how to go about everything. Should he remind her of his last name, so she can remember the kind parents that probably asked her parents if this was okay? Should he stick out his hand for her to shake? He hugs his friends, and his friends’ girlfriends, but a hug within three seconds is probably too soon. Isn’t it? It would be really fucking helpful if he could text Tim or Shaun for directions.

“Hello, I’m Rebekah. You know, like Isaac’s wife. It’s even spelled the same.” Frank doesn’t know. Well, he knows it’s a story from the bible, but he sure as fuck doesn’t remember a single thing about the story. Also, it seems like a bit of a bad sign that the first words out of her mouth are talking about a religion he’s not sure he fully believes in. He doesn’t tell her that he’s more likely to know about Rebecca as in Rebecca Romijn, Mystique from X-Men.

“I’m Frank. Like, um. I think Frank is Italian for protector?” So he has no fucking idea about the origin of his name. It’s about the best he’s going to do right now.

“Actually it’s free, or truthful,” she replies, smiling lightly. Holy fucking hell, how is this his life? To be set up with a girl that has some sort of name encyclopedia, and lie about his name within the first ten words. Christ.

“Oh.”

“Are you going to sit down? I was thinking we could get milkshakes. Or, that’s what I told the guy when he came over to ask for my order.”

Frank takes off his backpack and slides it into the booth before he follows it. “You’ve been waiting long enough to order?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t worry about it, Frank. Patience is a virtue. So, milkshakes?”

“Sure.” He watches her wave at the counter, and lets her order them two chocolate milkshakes. He’d really rather strawberry, but he doesn’t trust himself to speak without saying something else completely retarded.

“So, you’re in senior year, right?” Frank nods. “What are you going to major in?”

If Frank had the ability to text right now, without seeming like a rude asshole, he’d ask Shaun if it was considered a dating failure if he shot himself in the face. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m gonna just take first year classes and then see what gets me, you know? Are you a senior too?”

“Yes. I’m going to be a lawyer.” The waiter comes back over with their milkshakes and Frank takes a deep sip. Decent, though he still likes smoothies more.

When the thought comes, it’s like a slap in the face. He doesn’t want to have sex with her. Frank’s smart enough to know he should want to. That’s what’s supposed to happen in this sort of situation. His conscious fore-brain is supposed to deal with having conversation, his caveman back-brain is supposed to say ‘mine, sperm time now’ and they’re supposed to meet somewhere in the middle with witty jokes designed to make her like him and want to date him so that in a month or two she’ll put out, less time if she’s not a Catholic. But his caveman isn’t interested in the least.

Theoretically she’s hot. He can see patches of untanned skin under the weird neckline of her dress, he should be turned on by them. He should want to see her naked so he can see where exactly warm brown meets baby pink. But he doesn’t, and he isn’t. And what that probably means is he’s gay.

He hasn’t really thought about it before, considered it an option. He watches straight porn and jerks off to it. When he doesn’t watch the porn because he’d rather jerk off without getting out of bed, it’s him watching a couple in his head, not the girl -guy apparently- doing stuff to him. It’s fucking weird to have not figured this out before. He’s sixteen, seventeen in less than a month. This is the sort of bomb that gets dropped when you’re just starting puberty. To be fair though it’s not like he’s ever had a mad urge to make out with Hambone. It’s never really come up before.

Still, it feels right. He takes a second to think about Rebekah, and moves beyond her to whether or not he’d want to have sex with Zoe or Claire, and then moves beyond them to any girl at Carleton. In all cases the answer is a resounding no. And then Frank poses the hypothetical, _could I have sex with Ryland_ and gets a maybe. Fuck.

“So, what do you like?” It’s about as vague a question as Frank can think of, which normally he wouldn’t do if he wanted to get to know someone. But right now he just wants her to talk about something -anything- and only have to nod or throw in a ‘yeah’ or ‘that’s shitty’ on occasion. Although with her a swear will probably be shocking and he should try to avoid them. It would be rude to walk out right now, which means he’s got to do the next best thing and let her think she’s interesting while he actually gives himself a chance to think.

The first thing that comes to mind under the swell of slight panic is irritation at the panic, because it’s not like it should really matter. He needs to get home and do some empirical testing with various porn downloads to figure out for sure. But if he does end up liking guys, he’s not going to be a self-loathing gay guy. Closeted would probably be a better option for the time being, there’s no point in coming out when he hasn’t even has ass sex to make sure. But he’s not going to hate himself for it if he does like it. The Bouncing Souls say ‘this is a message to you, do what you love, love what you do’, and their lyrics have never steered him wrong.

*

It’s not difficult at all to find the gay porn. It’s not like being twelve and not having his own computer yet. Back then Frank had to resort to either stealing his father’s magazines, or sneaking into the living room after his parents were asleep and frantically clearing the browser history afterward. He’s sixteen now, and in control of whatever he wants to download on his own computer.

It’s not difficult, and it’s not different. Like always when looking for porn careful navigation is required. Some downloads are obviously a mainframe melting virus hidden in an oddly kb’ed file, just waiting to infect his computer. Some websites are utter cockteases, a few seconds of video before they ask you to pay, or erotic literature instead of film, like he wants to fucking read. Jerking off is not supposed to be English class. And because for every decent pervert in the world who just wants to watch a few people fuck there is some pervert that wants to see people drinking each other’s piss, Frank also needs to steer around everything that completely nauseates him.

Most of his trusted websites are now irrelevant. Too bad there’s no such thing as Suicide Boys. Frank would totally pay for that, it would be worth it. He’s got the credit card to do so, which not everyone his age does. It’s got a low limit, but his aunt pays the bill on his birthday and Christmas. Normally it’s for concert tickets, when the band is popular and can only get them by phone or online purchase. She never seems to read the items list, just pays it for him, she probably wouldn't notice a subscription to a website of hot emo college students. Unfortunately it doesn't actually exist. But there’s stuff like Xtube, sites that cater to anyone wanting to watch anything. And within five minutes it’s obvious his type is a kind of guy called a twink. The term helps refine the search.

Frank clicks around, not watching anything for more than a few seconds. He wants to think that his hesitance isn’t because he doesn’t want to find out the truth about himself. He doesn’t want to be the closeted douchebag, that shit is so fucking nineteen eighties. Not that Frank particularly loves glam music, but Freddie fucking Mercury, superstar of an era, and he couldn’t come out until he was dying. It’s pathetic when heroes are too scared be themselves, and it’s even more pathetic that it’s him. His friends won’t care, and he shouldn’t care.

Needing to give himself a pep talk isn’t the best platform for trying to get aroused. He keeps clicking through Xtube, five seconds at most of guys jerking off before going on to the next. Finally he ends up following one of the comments off the website. It’s some guy’s personal site, a few more films of him jerking off, a few with him with others. They each have titles, like Eric’s Big Day, or Rockstar Blowjob. Frank scrolls through them before clicking on Locker Room Lust. While he’s waiting for it to buffer enough, he reads the summary and snickers. _Eric, new to the baseball team, is surprised the first time he sees the nubile team get wild and kinky off the diamond_. He’s pretty sure nubile is supposed to mean girls, but since he’s not Mr Watton, he’s not going to be underlining it in red pen with a question mark beside it.

The first part of the video shows a six guys standing in a circle. They all have their shorts pulled down to mid-thigh, jerking off. Frank thinks, amused, that six guys grunting in different speeds and tones is probably a bit of a nightmare for the sound guy.

Then it switches to a scene between just two guys. One guy his leaning against the bank of lockers, towel still slung over his shoulder. The other is on his knees, tugging the tiny uniform shorts to his ankles, then repeating the step with his briefs before leaning forward to lick at the head of his cock. It cuts to a scene of the guy sucking like a pro, the entire dick in his mouth at once, the standing guy with his hand in the the kneeling guy’s hair, making him take it.

Then it goes to another group scene. This time it’s bunch of guys totally naked, lined up against the lockers. They’re waiting for the guy that’s on the bench, nude except for high baseball socks, his feet near his ears.

It shows a few seconds of the guy being fucked before it fades out and a few sentences of white lettering come up on the black square saying that for only twenty nine dollars he can watch the entire movie. Frank scoffs. They were hot, but they weren’t mythical Suicide Boys hot. He doesn’t need a come shot anyway, what he watched was enough information for Frank to try.

He leans back in the computer chair, making himself comfortable against the padded back. He pulls out his dick and tries to imagine himself in the situation; a bunch of guys in the locker room all ready to grab his junk. The visual is there but the arousal isn’t, so Frank moves on. A bunch of guys wanting to fuck him does nothing. A bunch of guys wanted to be fucked. Nothing.

Frank shrugs mentally. It’s either the same issue he had with straight porn, or he’s asexual. That at least doesn’t seem likely at all, considering how often he jerks off. He clears his mind of himself and pictures the guys he just watched on screen, reimagines the cocksucking scene. This time there’s no cut away, no pausing to try to get money from a horny viewer. There’s just a tall slim guy getting his big dick sucked by someone who is clearly loving doing it. Someone who knows how to properly stretch his mouth, how to get the proper rhythm to make the tall guy throw his head back and nearly brain himself on the locker without caring because it’s just that good.

It works. The revelations hit strong and fast; he’s hard, he’s gay, he’s coming into his hand. Frank grabs a tissue from the box that’s always present beside his monitor and cleans up. He decides he’ll think about the next step later. Finding a boyfriend to do this shit with is important. The longer he has to have sex before he goes off to college and has to start all over again the better. But it’s been a long fucking day, and it’s not like he can just text everyone in his phone asking if they want to go on a date.

*

“What are the Cobras doing now?” Frank’s curious, but ignorant. They’ve been doing _something_ half the day, they’re all walking around with their hands planted on their mouths like mimes ashamed of their failure.

“Dunno. I don’t think this is right consistency.” Joe pokes at the dish with a long wooden spoon. Frankly Frank’s a bit surprised it doesn’t rear up and devour the spoon. Home Ec Stream A is for the students that just want to fuck off and get an easy credit for cooking, Stream B is for the students planning on going in the culinary arts. It’s not said out loud, it’s just supposed to be two classes to catch the overflow. But if you look at him and Joe in one class, and Alex Suarez and Smith the Fifth in the other, and the fact that the two different teachers sharing the same classroom have entirely different lesson plans, well, you don’t need to be a rocket scientist to know that Stream A is going to get the shitty ingredients.

“Joe, we’re making a sausage and egg casserole. We’re not going to eat it anyway.” Part of the trouble of having Stream A Collins instead of Stream B Okama is Collins has lost all hope, and ignores everything his students say, including dietary restrictions. Technically Joe could probably sue for bigotry or something, but he doesn’t seem to care, just doesn’t eat anything related to pigs. “Seriously this is fucking gross. Why did we not skip?”

“Because we want to get into college?”

“You’ve got it the other way ‘round. It’s senior year, our apps are mostly in, we’re supposed to be slacking.”

It’s a stupid ass comment, he realises too late. Frank needs to change the subject, and quickly and provocatively at that. Joe’s starting to do that staring into the distance thing, which means he’s close to a panic attack. Yeah he has at least one a day, there’s probably not a day in the last month Joe hasn’t gone to the guidance counselor, but that doesn’t mean it has to be under Frank’s watch. He might not be as good as Joe’s real friends, but he’ll at least try.

“Seriously, how are they not kicked out yet?” The door is closed but he can see Gabe through the window latticed with metal. “Do they attend more than a class a day?”

“Well Gabe, Ryland and Elisa are repeating so I think they only have the one class. Besides, Mr Marks will vouch for anything they do. If they’re making a scene, it’s a sponsored scene. For the most part, anyway. Whatever it was, Brock was against it, and Ryland took him out. I doubt Marks will be saying that brawling is an important experience.”

Frank still sometimes wishes he could get in on that. The improv troupe is small but they seem to have the most fun of the school. Surely they could use more than six members. On the other hand, it’s a bit late. The Cobras formed under Gabe’s vast enthusiasm in his freshman year, encouraging the entirety of all four years of drama class to sign up. By the end it had dwindled to Gabe, Ryland and Elisa, but Gabe had kept his hope. He’d had a second round of auditions in his sophomore year, and had gathered the rest of the troupe that still exists this year. Honestly, Frank is glad to be graduating this year. Carleton is going to be far more boring without them.

“Fucking Gabe, man.” Not that he actually has anything against the guy, it’s just a phrase to keep Joe talking and his mind off applications.

“Actually no. I have no idea what they’re doing but this time it’s not some crazy ass thing Gabe got from one of Marks’ textbooks. He got it from- oh what the fuck is his name? Loner kid.”

“Joe, we’ve got like two thousand teens here. There’s more than one loner kid.” The timer goes off on the stove and Frank jams their casserole in it, glancing around the class as he does. Half the stations are still working on stirring it. Theirs was too thick to stir. Joe’s probably right, which would suck if Frank cared. You don’t get graded for how awesome your dish is, not in Stream A. In Stream B Okama demands a portion of each dish to test it. Collins is probably well aware that he could get food poisoning twelve times over.

“Fine. Music whore loner kid. Worked at the last place Pete did.”

“Again, not helpful.” Pete’s had like a thousand jobs, somehow he’s always getting fired. Not that Frank knows that much about Pete, Joe’s friends and his friends don’t really mesh, even though they tried for a week or two to hang out in the science lab at lunch. It just you always learn a bit about acquaintances friends because what else is there to talk about while you’re waiting for your bread to not rise because you fucked up measuring the yeast?

“Dude, his last job. Fuck, I dunno, tall, skinny music whore always wears a hat loner. He’s seriously not that hard to miss, he has fucking duct tape on his mouth. Fuck, I don’t care. Just saying he started it, not Gabe.”

After Home Ec Frank’s got a spare. A legit one, not a man made one. He could ask Gabe, or even a different drama kid. But as soon as he asks he’s going to be involved whether or not he wants to be. That’s how he runs a perfect spontaneous improv group, he recruits whether or not anyone wants to be recruited. It’s best not to engage with that dude unless you’re willing to be committed to the ridiculous. But when he sees hat and duct tape in the library he sits down beside him. Frank’s curious.

“So what’s that about?” he asks, gesturing. The guy rolls his eyes at him, and it occurs to Frank he can’t really talk. "Okay, point. Come."

Frank tugs Mikey from the spread of tables over to the double row of computers against the wall. He logs in and mutters "I'm just gonna haveta figure this out myself."

Google is utterly useless. 'Crazy motherfuckers with duct tape' gets nothing of relevance through the first three pages of possibilities. "It's all fuckin blogs and lyrics. What the hell?"

The guy is arching over him, using a horrifically pointy elbow to balance himself as he awkwardly types in ‘day of silence’ with his right hand. He opens Wikipedia and then sits back and gives Frank a minute to read it. It’s pretty short for a Wiki article, only a few outlinks that he doesn’t bother to click on. Everyone is being silent to protest gay, lesbian, bi and transgendered bullying.

Frank can’t help the noise of disgust that escapes him. "That's it? That's why Ryland took out Brock?" Not that it should be surprising. Brock’s one of the guys that hides behind Christianity to hate people, even though he doesn’t bother to go to church. Brock’s parents know his parents, and at least when he doesn’t go to church he’s honest about his lack of belief. No wonder Ryland took him out. It was probably random chance that got Ryland doing it, it could have easily been any of the Cobras. Gabe’s not the sort of person to put up with bullshit.

There’s not a chance that he can stay silent. There’s only two periods left, but they’re his favourite. A legitimate spare nearly requires going to the caf to play a few round of cards and over-exaggerate about everything, and Ancient Civilisations is just about the most fascinating elective he’s taken over the last four years. That doesn’t mean that he can’t do something. Even if he wasn’t gay himself, he should still do something. Shit, this should have been on the announcements this morning. His friends totally would have participated.

He leaves the library and goes out through the smoking doors. Just like a cafeteria, there are always people at the smoking doors. Technically the school’s probably not allowed to have them, but it’s where everyone congregates and if they tried to stop them they’d just move to a different door. “Anyone have a Sharpie?” He only knows half of them by name, but that’s fine. They’re all smokers, they’re united in their need to poison their lungs.

They all shrug, except one girl that holds out a blue highlighter. Frank pulls out the hem of his shirt and tries it, it doesn’t show up on the fabric. He gives it back to her and thanks her before going back inside, not even taking the time to have a cigarette. He’s on a mission, he can smoke after he looks the part.

There’s a freshman kid sitting in the art hallway. It’s a short hall, it only has four classrooms. Frank’s never seen an aerial view of his school, but it has to look like a centipede, one main drag with a dozen little halls acting as legs. Frank doesn’t know the guy, but he’s sitting cross legged, face nearly on the floor as he crouches to draw on a piece of posterboard.

“Do you have a sharpie? Or know which teacher would be the least pissed about me walking in to ask for one?”

“It would be Mr Labine, but yeah I’ve got. If you’ll use it here, you can’t take it.” The kid opens one of the many sections of his messenger bag and pulls out a dozen sharpies held together with an elastic. “What colour?”

Shit. Frank didn’t even know Sharpies came in more than black, red, and navy blue. “Black, I guess?”

He holds it out and Frank jams it in his pocket. Then he takes off his shirt, turns it inside out, and smooths it out on the floor so he can write on it. He gives the marker back and puts his shirt on before thanking the kid and making his way back to the library.

Duct tape guy - Frank thinks it’s a nicer descriptor than ‘tall, skinny music whore always wears a hat loner’ - is listening to a CD player, earbuds under his skullcap. Frank doesn’t know his name to call his attention, so he just puts his hand on his shoulder. Duct Tape flinches away, like he’s pissed. Which is stupid, it’s not like Frank punched him to get him to pay attention.

"Do you know few people actually have Sharpies here? You know I had to go all the way to the fuckin' art hallway? Ridiculous. You'd think there'd at least be someone wanting to vandalise the bathroom or something."

Duct Tape doesn’t react, doesn’t even look up from his empty sheet of lined paper. Frank goes on. "Anyway, w'ad you think? I didn't think I'd be able to shut up, but this could work. Right?"

At that Duct Tape does look at him. He takes in the expensive Hollister, inside out and with the words _homophobia is gay_ written on top of where you can still sort of see the white logo. Frank could swear he smiles, and takes that as invitation to sit down.

“I’m not gonna ask what you’re listening to, because you’ll just roll your eyes again. Instead I’m just yoinking.” Frank reaches out a hand and pops a earbud out and puts it in his own ear. “Placebo. Not bad. Not my favourite or anything, but I like how they just do their thing you know? They just do their drugs, and enjoy it, without trying to brag like oh my god I’m so hardcore. Rock is always better with that kinda thing than rap though. You ever think rap is just songs about people bragging how awesome they are? Oh, I guess I can’t get your opinion. Unless you want to go all Helen Keller about it, and start writing it in letters on my spine. How about I go do my thing, and you keep on doing whatever, but you gimme your email so we can talk about this later?”

Duct Tape tears a corner of the paper off and in surprisingly legible handwriting puts Mikeyfollowstheway@gmail. Frank pockets it, and goes off to find a game of Spoons to crash.

*

Frank tucks his backpack under the bench of the cafeteria table before announcing to the group “’m going to go get Mikey. He’s probably in the-”

“Library? Yeah, just where he’s been every day the last two weeks when you’ve invited him to sit with us.”

“What the fuck? Do you not like him?” It doesn’t make sense to him. The guy’s got a wicked sense of humour, and great Youtube links.

“Oh no, we like him. We’re just getting really sick of waiting for you to say you like him.”

Frank gives Shaun the best glare he can. “Excuse me?” What the fuck.

“Frank, it’s not like any of us give a flying fucking crap,” John says around a bite of cold mashed potatoes.

“Speak for yourself, darlin’,” Zoe says, patting her boyfriend’s hand. “Actually me and Tina met because we write fanfic so we’re actually pretty stoked. You and Mikey would look really good together, you don’t even know.”

No, seriously. What the fuck? He hasn’t even actually officially come out and his friends are imagining him have sex?

“There’s a difference between being gay and liking Mikey, okay?” Shit. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. It doesn’t seem as panic inducing as it should be.

“Frankie, it’s like a math equation, right?”

Tina throws a cheeto at Tim. Out of all of them she’s the one that gets the most annoyed when he gets drunk and starts rambling about code or homework he’s particularly enjoyed. “You’re taking a double major of math and computers in college. Of course it’s like a math equation.”

“I’m just saying if AC is Frank liking guys and AB is him wanting to hang out with Mikey every day then BC is pretty obviously-”

“How about BC equals shut the fuck up you fucking fucktard?” Frank doesn’t care how often he has to say it, there is a difference between him liking dudes and him liking Mikey. Of course the cursing doesn’t put off his friends in the least. They couldn’t really be his friends if swearing offended them.

“Okay lets analyse it, alright?” Claire pulls out her netbook. The school wifi is notoriously shitty but she manages to load a page. “Read this.” Frank looks at the title of the article; _wikihow.com know if you have a crush on a guy_. Frank pushes the laptop across the table without looking at it. He doesn’t need to start getting paranoid about his own reactions.

“Fine. If you talk to your friends about him a lot. If you’ve googled him or looked for him on social networking websites. If you look forward to the class you have with him. If you’re the first one to start a conversation with him. If-”

Frank’s had enough. “I talk about him like you talk about your coworkers, Adam or Sheena and I’m really not going to list all the motherfuckers off, but come on. It was Last.FM, and we have a fucking common interest in music, so I thought I could get more recs. I fucking like gym class, I don’t care if he’s there. And I’m the first one to start a conversation because I’m the one that always has to go get him from the library. Fuck you all, you’re all assholes. I’ll be back in five minutes. Hambone, if you steal my pudding I will cut you in half with a coin.”

He leaves his backpack at the table, knowing that they’ll still be there when he gets back. The walk from the cafeteria to the library is short, a flight of stairs and a turn around a corner. He doesn’t spend the time thinking about what his friends are saying, because they’re all assholes.

Frank finds Mikey where he always finds him, at one of the tables in the library. It would be retarded to think of it as their table, so he doesn’t. Just like he doesn’t have a permanent claim to the Whack-A-Mole at the arcade where he first met Hambone. That being clear, it is the table where they talked for the first time. Or Frank talked, and Mikey gave him contact information. Whatever.

Frank sneaks behind Mikey and pulls an earbud out. He recognises Where Eagles Dare and utterly ignores any slight rumble his body may make. Having the same brilliant taste in music doesn’t mean you’re soulmates. For all Frank knows, even Rebekah, the girl who turned him gay, might have the proper Jersey pride of loving the Misfits. Instead he chooses to sing along. There’s something about signing ‘I aint no goddamn son of a bitch’ in the library that makes him happy.

After the song finishes he says “I don’t get why you still come here every day. You know we want you to sit with us.”

“I’m just used to this. Me and Gee would come here instead of the caf.” Frank hopes he’s the kind of guy that comes home for the holidays. Mikey sort of needs him to. His friends might think he’s talking about Mikey all the time, but it’s nothing compared to Mikey with his brother. Almost everything in Mikey’s life relates to Gerard, his name comes up a dozen times a night during their instant messaging.

“Yeah, well, get used to the caf. You’re cutting into my precious eating time. Come on, my sandwich is getting cold.” Frank watches Mikey toss his book into his backpack, not bothering with a bookmark. The iPod gets a lot more care, he takes the time to curl up his headphones before putting it in a front compartment.

When they sit, Mikey’s across the table from him. Frank pulls out his paper bag and notes that his pudding is still intact. So at least there’s that, that his friends know when to back off. It’s that cocky thought that jinxes him.

“Mikey do you have a girlfriend?” Frank’s first urge to to slam his face against the cafeteria table, his second is to punch Claire in the face. Sheer self preservation is what stops him from doing either. Nosebleeds are stupid unless they come from mosh pits, and not only would Neil need to beat the crap out of him to defend Claire’s honor, Claire herself would also give him a epic beatdown. She’s a bit obsessive with her smile ever since removing the braces, she would slaughter him if he split her lip.

The third best option is defend Mikey from his friends’ stupidity. “Dude, he had his mouth taped on gay silence day. Shit, he _started_ gay silence day.”

“Fine. Agreed. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Yes.” Frank turns to look at Mikey quick enough to get whiplash. It’s not like he cares, he just thought it would have come up earlier if he had, so it’s a bit of a shock. They’ve been hanging out and messaging for like two weeks now, that’s sort of a first few days bit of information. “His name is Klaus. He’s in his forties and got this great chest of hair. He’s really into leather.”

Frank is not staring in horror. He’s _not_. Mikey can be into whatever he’s into.

Mikey bursts into laughter. “Oh man, you should see your faces. No, I totally don’t.”

“Klaus?” Shaun questions.

“You don’t think? I thought it sounded like the perfect leather daddy.”

“What about Randolph?”

Frank stays out of the conversation, just takes a bite of his sandwich and considers himself lucky to get out of it that fast. Which is why a minute later over Zoe arguing hard for Roger, Tina says “Mikey, you have our blessing for whoever you want to date.” Because that’s what happens when he gets complacent.

“What are you, a fucking priest?” Frank snaps. Just because his friends are assholes that don’t know what they’re talking about doesn’t mean Mikey should have to be inflicted.

“Cool. You have my blessing for dating Shaun.” Frank thinks he loves Mikey a little bit. Not for real, or anything. Just because he’s able to handle his friends and their crap. It’s pretty amazing.

*

Frank loves his spare. To be honest, he loves all his classes first semester, he’s got the best possible schedule. When the worst thing he’s got is a slacker cooking class that he can spend talking to Joe, it’s obvious things are pretty sweet. But there’s something about having a free forty five minutes to do whatever the fuck you want that’s awesome.

Before meeting Mikey, four days a week it was time to head downstairs to the cafeteria and play cards, the last day being left for trying to rush a project due the next day when he had a busy evening of moshing in a pit with Hambone and Shaun planned. But now there’s Mikey, and Frank has been spending all his time in the library. Mikey’s got ‘study hall’, which is the politically correct term they give ‘the nutjob needs less pressure’. You can only take study hall after meeting with a guidance counsellor. He hasn’t asked Mikey how he got it, figures it’s not his business unless Mikey tells him.

It’s weird though. Most people that get study hall just use it as another spare, a time to fuck off and be with friends. Mikey doesn’t. Every day Frank can find him in the library, headphones on. Sometimes he’s working on homework, sometimes he’s reading a book or just sitting with his eyes closed listening to his music. He’s always alone. Frank doesn’t understand it. It’s not like there’s any reason for him to be a loner. He’s funny online, has a great taste in videos and links. And it’s not like he’s people shy; when Frank drags him to the cafeteria each day he talks to all of them without a problem.

So three weeks in, and no closer to understanding, Frank does what he always does when he doesn’t understand something. He asks, as bluntly as possible. “So, you’ve got no friends, huh?”

Mikey flashes him the quickest of smiles before shaking his head. “I’ve got no school friends. There’s a difference.”

Frank’s a flurry of emotions. He’s happy, because it sucks when he imagines Mikey sitting at home, alone, waiting for Gerard to sign in or call him. He’s curious as hell. He’s even the slightest bit pissed, because getting information shouldn’t be like extracting teeth. It didn’t take Joe three weeks to tell him that he hangs out with Pete, Patrick, and Andy. When they became cooking buddies in junior year, they were telling each other about stoned adventures with friends within twenty minutes. “Well, you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“I’ve met all your friends.”

“My point exactly, fucker. Show me who you’re hanging out with after you log off.” Frank could almost set his watch by it, at nine thirty Mikey says gotta go and signs off. It’s never earlier, it’s sometimes a bit later, but he’s always gone by ten.

“Fine. Email me your address, and be ready at ten.” Frank starts to tell him where he lives and Mikey shakes his head. “Email me it, I need to mapquest.”

Frank’s parents are usually pretty decent about him going out. Their stance on it is most likely formed after having conversations about it on Sunday morning, because in the end everything goes back to heavenly advice for them. It's simple; they don’t care where he goes or how long he’s out, as long as he’s in bed to be woken up for breakfast before school. They don’t ask what his plans are as he waits by the door, which is good, considering he has no idea what Mikey’s friends like to do. Frank imagines Mikey hangs out with a lot of musicians, that he’s in a different band for every day of the week. He’s varied enough in his tastes that it’s entirely possible, and at this point it wouldn’t surprise Frank to find out Mikey’s a music prodigy and can play ten instruments, and he just hasn’t told anyone. A car pulls in front of the house, horn blaring at the same time that his cell buzzes. Frank shouts bye to his parents, already halfway out the door.

Mikey’s car is disgusting. It looks like he lives in it, except if someone actually lived in their car they’d have to keep things packed neatly to fit everything they’d need. It’s probably more accurate to say it looks like he lives in his car, if his house/car was in tornado alley and had just been taken out. Frank stands with the passenger door open, staring. There’s no way he’s sitting on the seat, with everything that’s on it, if only because he sees the glint of burned CDs and he doesn’t want to crack them.

Mikey rolls his eyes, stretches out his hand and grabs a handful of the papers and wrappers. He tosses them into the back seat. Literally tosses, just stretches his hand until it’s a bit past the headrest and flicks his wrist. It’s a rain of crap. He has to do it twice more before the seat is clear and Frank can sit. At his feet are no less than four half empty bottles of coke, and a bunch of coffee cups. Frank can only pray Mikey finished drinking them before he chucked the paper cup onto the floor.

Frank doesn’t recognise the song playing, but he likes it. It’s metal, fast enough to get his leg jittering to the beat.

Mikey looks over at him. He looks different. Happier. More confident. It’s hard to say how Frank knows, because it’s not like Mikey’s grinning or wearing a cocky smirk, but Frank can tell. “You want to go to a bar or a rave?”

“What?” Frank tries to remember their conversation during his spare. He doesn’t know it word for word, but he’s sure they were talking about meeting friends, not going to listen to a band.

“Well there are a few good places, and a few more if you’ve got a fake id-” of course he does, he couldn’t see half the concerts he does if he didn’t “but I’ve gotten a few texts about this awesome rave, so.”

“What do you want?”

“You pick.”

Frank scowls. This isn’t supposed to be about him. This is supposed to be meeting Mikey’s fucking friends, and how the hell is Frank supposed to know where they’re chilling tonight? But he’s never been to a rave before, never hung out with the kind of people that would know where to find one. So that’s what he picks, and Mikey smiles a bit as he checks his phone for directions.

Twenty minutes later they’re parking a few blocks away from the location, so nobody notices the herd of cars and calls the cops. Mikey informs him that it’s pretty much inevitable that the cops will be called, but the longer it gets put off the better. And that he shouldn’t worry, there are always a few of the DJ’s friends sitting around the location to warn everyone when they need to bail. Frank’s never been arrested, but he trusts Mikey when he says he’s been to more than he can count and he’s never been taken in. The worst they do to the participants is demand they leave, apparently.

It still doesn’t quite hit him what they’re doing until Mikey clomps up the steps of a abandoned elementary school. It’s fucking creepy as hell. The windows are covered in grime. Frank nearly kills himself when part of the broken concrete shifts under him, only a quick grip onto the dirty railing saves him. Mikey’s nicer than Neil, he doesn’t snicker at him for the lack of smooth moves. Frank considers it partially Mikey’s fault anyway. He didn’t really notice in the car, but now that he’s three steps lower than him, it’s easy to see the skin tight jeans tucked into high leather boots with big soles and silver clasps. Frank doesn’t really consider himself to have a thing for feet, but Mikey looks fucking good.

The door is open when Mikey tugs on it, Frank notices a heavy chain on the concrete side of the threshold. He takes a second to wonder if it still counts as B&E if you’re the hundredth person to enter and it’s already broken, then decides he’s already committed and puts it out of his head.

Mikey checks his phone again. “It’s supposed to be in one of the classrooms.”

They search the school until they can hear music thumping behind a door, window covered to bar peeking in. When Frank twists the handle and walks in it’s like falling into another universe. Suddenly Mikey’s outfit looks tame, there are people in fur and ratty denim and purposely torn gauze all around him. He’s had the ‘walking into a wall of sound’ experience before, it’s present at the better concerts. But it’s the first time it’s been techno, the first time he can’t identify why the floor is vibrating instead of just blaming the drums or bass guitar.

Things only get weirder from there. He stands to the side as Mikey starts conversations with people that Frank can’t hear from two feet away. Not that it matters, probably. Most of them look blazed out of their minds. Mikey and the girl with the pumpkin coloured hair are probably just saying the same stupid crap that he and Tim and Kelly talk about when they’re stoned. He ends up following Mikey for a good half hour as he gives his hellos. Mikey is fucking mingling, there’s no other word for it. It’s not that Frank begrudges him for it, it’s just surprising.

Finally they’re standing across the room from the DJ, and a gorgeous black guy comes up and slides the stem of a plastic flower into Mikey’s pocket, the petals arching away from his body obscenely. “I’m gonna dance, you want to-” Mikey shouts over the music.

Frank shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to dance to this. It’s not bad sounding, but it doesn’t crawl into his bones like a drum solo does. Never mind screaming, there’s no fucking lyrics at all, just synthesizers. Mikey shrugs at him and follows the guy. Frank leans against the wall, head pressed against a poster of alphabet. He’s cool with just watching.

As it turns out, there’s a lot to watch. Mikey only dances with the black guy for a little bit -it’s impossible to tell how long it’s been, there are no breaks between songs, it’s a never ending thump- before moving on to another, and then another. Each guy he dances with grabs his ass, or his hips, unless their arms are up in the air. Each guy Mikey picks he kisses, hands sliding into curls or afros or dreds or obvious wigs. He doesn’t hold back at all, and it’s uncomfortable watching him but Frank can’t look away. He’s seen his friends stoned and get into some heavy petting while watching a movie, but he’s never watched someone kiss like a dozen guys.

Eventually Mikey breaks away. Frank loses him in the crowd, until he’s coming back to lean with him. He’s got a bottle of water in hand, and after chugging half of it he gives it to Frank. Frank doesn’t need it, he’s not the one that’s been dancing for nearly two hours, but he takes a sip anyway.

“Wow. You make out with a lot of guys, huh?”

Mikey shrugs. Really, it’s not like his clothes are that much different from school. Crazy boots or not, it’s still tight jeans, band shirt a size too small and a belt with a great buckle. But they look different now, sticking to him with sweat.

“If I wasn’t here would you be hooking up with one of them?” Frank is just curious if he’s being a cock block, honestly. He doesn’t care if Mikey’s been with the entire bar. He’s fucking hot enough to have been; this is clearly Mikey’s element. It doesn’t come out sounding that way, like simple curiosity. It sounds jealous, or protective, or some shit. Fuckin’ weird. He wants to apologise for the tone, but thinks that would make it even weirder.

“No man. I don’t go home with anyone.” Which is a totally evasive answer, but it’s not like Frank _cares_. But not only has he lost control of his inflection, apparently he’s also lost his face too. Mikey clarifies for him. “A grope, a handjob in the bathroom, his car maybe. Nothing more important.”

Frank has _no idea_ how to respond to that. “Oh. Cool. Well, keep on-” he waves his hand towards the mash of people to finish his sentence.

“I know you don’t know them. But I could get Jillie or Kenna to dance, if you wanted.”

“What? No. Homphobia is gay, remember?”

“You can be supportive without being gay.” Mikey says evenly before taking another sip of water.

“Yeah, and you can also be supportive ‘cause you want to have sex with guys. But before you list off a few guys, just no. I’d rather just. Just go have fun, fuck.” He waves his arm again and this time Mikey takes him up on it. Frank bites his lip when Mikey pours some of the water on a redhead in a white shirt and they start to grind together. He needs a fucking drink. A drink or a smoke. But it’s highly fucking unlikely that this group has anything but MDMA and meth in their systems.

He needs a drink, or a smoke, or to get the fuck out. Frank takes another look at the writhing happy mass, not a nosebleed or thrown elbow in sight. He can’t fucking do this. He takes a step forward, about to let Mikey know he’s leaving, then thinks better of it. There’s no sense in interrupting Mikey’s fun. Frank walks a couple of blocks before calling a cab. A cab dispatched to an abandoned school is probably pretty fishy. He doesn’t want to be the reason the cops come.

*

Frank doesn’t know why Mikey is waiting beside his locker. Hell, he didn’t even know Mikey knew where his locker was. As far as he can remember he never visited it while with Mikey. That’s the secondary issue though, the primary of course being the way Mikey is standing with his arms crossed. He doesn’t even have his earbuds in.

“What the fuck.” Sometimes it’s really aggravating how flat Mikey can make his voice. Frank’s seen him get excited, on occasion, but for the most part he’s flat-toned. The words don’t sound like a question, they don’t sound mad or curious. They’re just three words, and Frank doesn’t know what to do with them.

Not that he should have to do anything. In his point of view, things are pretty simple. He took a cab home, on the way texting Mikey once to tell him to not look for him when he decided to leave because he wasn’t there. He didn’t respond to Mikey’s texts back, because it was late and he needed to sleep. Even if he didn’t actually fall asleep for a few hours, trying to compose a sentence would have only woken up his brain further.

“Was that seriously a big deal for you?”

Frank just looks at him, because what the fuck. How is he supposed to answer that question? He’s only got a second to stare though, before Mikey is closing in on him. Mikey’s hands are on the hem of his shirt, his lips starting a smooth kiss. For a moment Frank is stunned. And then a wise voice in the back of his head screams at him to seize the day motherfucker because who knows if this will ever happen again, and regardless of all his denials to his friends over the last week, in the moment of truth, with Mikey’s lips on his, he wants this. So Frank opens his mouth a bit and does his best to slide his tongue in without jabbing at Mikey’s teeth or something else equally stupid.

It takes a minute for him to really get into it, but once he’s over the shock his hands go to Mikey’s ass. Mikey’s wallet is between his hand and his left check but the right Frank can get a bit of a grip on.

And then Mikey’s pulling away. He smiles for a brief second. “See? No big deal.”

Frank smiles back, ignoring the piece of him that’s crumpling like a piece of notebook paper. “No big. Hey, I gotta write my homework questions before class starts. I’ll see you at lunch. You could try coming to the caf yourself, you know.” By now it’s like a private joke, having to track him down every day.

It’s quite possible that Frank has homework he hasn’t done for Spanish. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. What’s far more important is writing a list of reasons why it really is a big deal, actually, thanks. It’s shaping up to be a nice list.

-my first kiss with my preffered gender  
-best kiss i’ve gotten  
-took place in the hall so people saw will ask  
-didn’t care that people saw, makes me a pervert?  
-i want to kiss him again  
-makes me want to tell him to not kiss others  
-thought of others kissing him makes me want to kill them

He’s scrawling out his eighth _no, really, kill them dead_ when Mrs Aguirre comes up to him. She peers at his notebook and says in her clipped accented voice “This doesn’t look like notes Mr Iero.”

Frank hates the way adults only use your last name like it’s a threat. It’s stupid and annoying. It’s almost like when parents use your full name when they’re angry, except worse because Frank actually sometimes gives a shit if his parents are angry, and seeing as they’re his parents, they have the right to use his name how they please. A teacher trying to threaten him with his family name is fucking dumb.

He should just apologise. He knows he should. It’s not like he’s the first person in the world to be caught writing something other than notes. Shit, Zoe was telling a story about almost getting caught writing smut a few days ago. But the frustration of last night combines with the frustration of the kiss and the stupidity of names being threats and Frank doesn’t deal well with frustration. Instead of a muttered sorry he says clearly “Would you like it better if I’d written it in Spanish? I could do that. Quiero besarlo otra vez, alright?”

“Mr Iero, your smart mouth has earned you a detention.” Wow, that’s just fucking great. Because nobody will notice and ask him what happened at all! He won’t have to avoid explaining to John why he doesn’t need a ride, and he won’t have to think up some bullshit excuse to give his parents about being about an hour and a half late, between the detention and the bus he’ll have to take. Fuck.

The moment Spanish is done Frank books it for the smoking doors. He’s never needed a cigarette more in his life. It takes his lighter three slides of the wheel to actually create fire, though he’s convinced his creative swearing is what finally gets it going. It sputters out before he can get the end lit, and a torrent of words not approved by the FCC come out. Victoria takes pity on him and cups her hand around his face so he can light it without the wind blowing it out. He appreciates the move, and knows that he should probably work on his smokers karma. Just not today. Today, if any fucker tries to bum a smoke without at least offering a dollar to recompense him he’s going to drop kick them.

The smoke fills his lungs and for brief seconds Frank forgets how utter shit his life is. He balances his backpack on the bike stand and pulls out his morning binder. It’s harder to balance it on top of his backpack, but he’s fucked if he’s going to stub out his cigarette so he can use two hands. Finally he’s able to get the whipping in the wind papers open to the Spanish section. He rips out the page and clicks his lighter a few more times until a weak flame comes out of the Bic. He holds the corner to the flame. It goes up in an arch, a fiery rainbow. Fuck everything on it. Mikey kissing a guy means nothing to him, so it needs to mean nothing to Frank. Even when it’s him. If he loses this friendship because he’s an asshole it will suck, so he needs to man up about this.

*

If there’s one truth Frank holds to his heart, it’s that those that are head over heels in love with Christmas are jerks. Not that he’s got anything against Christmas, per se. It’s just everyone claims it’s the best holiday ever, and Frank gets a bit sick of their lies. Frank’s got an entire mental list of reasons that Halloween is the best day ever. He even wrote it out once, for the daily journal they had to have in sixth grade.

A lot of parents let their child skip school on their birthday. Frank’s known John forever, and in the twelve years they’ve been going to school together, he hasn’t seen him sitting in a desk once. His parents like to take him to the movies on the fourteenth. They do their best to see everything in the theatre, carefully scheduling a restaurant dinner between two of the movies with a bigger wait time. Frank’s parents are different. His skipping class is entirely without their knowledge, and he’s never actually ditched an entire day.

But, thanks to the special fact that his birthday is the thirty first of October, it doesn’t matter. There’s no real _schooling_ at school on Halloween. When he was younger it was all about the different classes having their time to march around the gymnasium, the way the locker room was changed into a pitch black monster house, having worksheets for English asking them to list all the words they know with double ee’s. Now that he’s older, everyone is just preoccupied trying to figure out where to go and what to do. No teacher really tries to get them to focus. Twelve grades and preschool, and it’s always almost a free day.

Frank gets a lot of shit for his build. His Aunt Catalina calls him ‘the wee one’, they didn’t want him trying out for track because he was too short for any of the jumping, and sometimes the asshole carnies actually make him stand against the fucking pointing clowns before they let him on the ride. The only time it doesn’t bother him is Halloween. Common social knowledge states you need to stop trick or treating when you hit puberty. The only teenagers that go are the jerkoffs just looking for an excuse to egg a house when the adult refuses to give them candy. But not Frank. Dressed up, he’s short enough that if he goes to a neighbourhood where they don’t know him, he can still be a twelve year old. Which is still bordering on too old, but most houses will still give him candy.

He’s got two costumes. He’s got the costume he puts on after John drops him off. It’s always something age diminishing, like Transformers or Power Rangers. Something that tells the stranger at the door he buses to so he can be out of his area that yes, he really is a socially retarded pre-teen that needs mini chocolate bars. When he finally buses back home -not until he’s got a grocery bag of chocolate and candy and licorice in each hand- it’s time to dress up for the rest of the night.

The night’s usually on a tight schedule, but Frank has just enough time between changing and calling John or Tina to get a ride to whatever they’ve decided is the master plan to sit down with his parents. They never make him have a full dinner, they’re perfectly aware that he spent the entire bus trip sorting through his bags and eating every Snickers he collected. But there is cake, delicious orange flavoured cake. Every year they use the same candles, with the additional one pressed into the icing. It’s funny how after seventeen years some are nearly nubs.

Once he’s got the last crumbs of the cake wiped up with a licked thumb, an ETA of five minutes from Shaun, who answered Tina’s phone, Frank goes upstairs. It’s hard to find a place to hide his mickey in his Freddy Krueger costume, but he’ll need it. The papers and pot goes in his other pocket, and he runs down the stairs. There’s no sense in taking a jacket, being cold for the car ride is better than getting it jacked or puked on at whoever’s house. Or hell, at the last house party Alex Marshall got into a fist fight when he went into the bedroom and two people were fucking on top of the heap of jackets. Frank’s not planning on blood or come stains, thanks.

After they arrive, it’s mutually decided between the nine of them that two am is the agreed upon leaving time. No matter how drunk, stoned, or fucked up, at two it’s time to go to the cars. If you want to go home earlier or stay later, then you’re taking on the responsibility of finding your own way home. A mass text will be sent out to anyone that doesn’t show up at the cars, but after ten minutes tough shit. Frank can deal with that. Worst comes to worst, he gets to crash on Elisa’s basement floor with twenty other people and take first bus home after a nap.

At one thirty, Frank staggers into the kitchen. Like always, his presents are sitting on the table, shiny wrapped boxes covering the place mats. Frank grins when he sees them, but decides to save them for the morning. His joy threshold has been exceeded, and even world peace and a lifetime’s supply of weed won’t make life more brilliant. Better to save them until the morning, when he has a hangover and still needs to go to fucking Spanish class.

He pours a glass of grape juice and takes it upstairs with him, careful to not jostle the cup as he climbs. He has neither the patience nor the clear eyesight to mop up a spill right now.

Once in his room he pulls out his phone. He considers a mass text, but in the end keeps it to the guys. Kelly, at least, will not be impressed with what he’s about to send, and he doesn’t need anyone killing his glee. So he types in John, Neil, Tim and Shaun as recipients and sends **so found another reason why halloween is the best holiday ever**

Shaun texts him back first, the reply also sent to all of them. **w?**

It’s only eight letters, but it’s the sweetest eight letters in the world. **handjobs.**

A minute later Zoe texts him, **email me the story or so help me god i will. dunno. fill in appropriate threat here.**

Okay. So maybe it’s a bit creepy. But it’s not like he doesn’t want to brag, and the guys won’t fully understand the awesomeness of it. Or rather, they surely must understand how completely awesome a very first handjob is. But they won’t want details, just like how he’s never really wanted details of what Claire feels like riding Neil. He thought it was some sort of riding a high horse ‘I respect her more than you respect her’ thing, but now it’s obvious it’s not. He respects the shit out of Mikey, that’s _why_ he wants everyone to know. Because having sex with someone you actually fucking care about proves that they’re awesome. Or something. Whatever, he doesn’t need to justify it, if it was something new and exciting for Mikey he’s sure Mikey would be IMing Gerard.

The keyboard is possibly not the easiest thing to see. The letters are half worn off, A and E and L completely gone. But spellcheck kindly underlines his mistakes, and Frank actually takes the time to fix them. After all, there’s no sense in telling a story if it’s not comprehensible.

 _so i was talking to beckie about something, this girl in my psychology class. mikey came up, he was like i have an important horror movie question. so i told him to go ahead and ask, and he told me that it was a conversation that would be better over a smoke. so we went outside and he lit my cigarette for me, i didn’t know he smoked, i’ve never seen him at the smoking doors. but whatever that’s not the point. he took a drag and gave it back to me, and as i was smoking it he asked if i thought if freddy krueger had gotten laid in hell, would he have been pissed enough to have come back and started murdering people? so i pointed out that freddy was a pedophile, so i didn’t really want to think about him having sex. and he told me that that was a good point, and also that freddy probably would have had a hard time giving a handjob with his hands the way they were. and before i had time to point out that he didn’t have his hands like that until he came back from hell anyway, mikey grinned and said that jason didn’t have the same problem._

 _dude, i didn’t even know he was jason. he was wearing a really ratty jacket, but he didn’t have the mask or a cleaver. i guess he left it in the house somewhere, or on Elisa’s bed with the rest of everyone’s crap._

 _anyway, he said that jason didn’t have the same problem, and then he stuck his hand down my jeans. he pressed me against the house, the stucco was sharp and cold as fuck, but it was totally worth it. he jerked me off, then scraped his hand on the side of the house. i asked him if he wanted me to do it back, i guess it was a stupid question, nobody’s really gonna say no, are they, but he looked at my kick ass gloves and said he liked his dick not sliced up. not that they were knives anyway, but i guess he was trying to give me an out? but i just took them off and give him one back._

 _so yeah. pretty fucking kick ass. clear proof halloween totally owns every other holiday. hope you have a equally good time with hambone. handjobs for everyone! is it a handjob when it’s a girl? or is that just fingering. whatever. point is, have a good night. i’m gonna crash now._

Frank double checks that it’s being sent to Zoe and just Zoe. Not that he’s afraid to come out to everyone at school, but a, Mikey might not want something like this broadcast, and b, he’s got sensitive email addresses. Like his uncle, who sends him shit about the football pool, as though Frank cares. The account is in the clear, so he presses send, drains his juice, and strips down. He needs to sleep off the alcohol as best he can before school the next morning.

*

Frank’s never actually been out of Jersey. He’s never had a summer road trip with his parents, or thought to tag along when his cousins had theirs. So even though the buses are only taking them forty five minutes away, it’s still exciting. It’s fucking New York, if you’re not excited you don’t have a soul. However, he seems to be alone in his opinion, nobody else is jittering in their seat. A lot of the seniors didn’t even care enough to want to come. Of the approximate five hundred seniors, they’ve got a little less than two hundred spread through the three buses.

Frank thinks the downers can fuck off. If they’ve got such a shitty attitude it’s better that they’re not coming. He knows the truth; that one could be in New York City for a month and not see everything, never mind just the six days they’ve got. Which is why each of the six staff are leading their own tour, with a few parent volunteers to help. They’ve got art, theatre, music, sports, shopping, and landmarks. It wasn’t really a question between them, Frank, John, Tim, and Mikey are obviously going to go on the music tour. How could one be in New York and not go to the place that CBGB’s used to be and spit on the fashion connoisseurs inside?

For a minute though, it had been debated. Tim wanted landmarks, because he plans on moving to New York and doesn’t want to be a gawker once he gets there, he wants to see all there is to see as a tourist beforehand. Frank almost signed up for the theatre tour, just to see how the Cobras would react. And he knows that Mikey nearly went with the art tour. Frank wouldn’t have complained, he understands Mikey’s need to understand everything Gerard does. But he’s happy that when the three of them decided on music as their mutual interest, Mikey went with them.

Mr Figero rises to his feet and calls for quiet. Once the bus is as quiet as a bus of seventy teenagers is going to get, he speaks. “Attention students. As a treat we are letting you pick your own roommates. Be responsible with your choices, you’re not switching rooms if you get into a bicker with one of them. And keep in mind it’s four to a room. New York City hotels are expensive enough without not filling a room. It goes without saying all four in a room are the same gender.”

Gabe stands up and Frank leans into the aisle more so he can get a clear view of whatever is about to happen. Whatever it is, he’s sure it’s going to be good. Gabe says “excuse me, but why? If it’s to prevent sexual misconduct, I have to say that’s very ignorant of you. As Mr Marks can attest to, our protest revealed we have a significant faction of gay, lesbian, and bisexual students. To assume that just because it is all the same gender in the room means there can’t be sexual feelings is simply ludicrous.”

“Ohhh, way to get your lawyer on,” somebody cat calls. Frank’s expecting a flourish, a wave or a tiny bow, but Gabe stands with strong posture, seemingly intent on Mr Figero’s answer.

Instead of the short bald man struggling for a response, it’s Mr Marks that answers. “While I appreciate your activism, the majority of the students do happen to be nearer the straight side of the sexuality continuum. Our rooming arrangements stand.”

“But sir-” Gabe starts. Ryland reaches up from the bus bench and tugs him back down into the seat. Frank scowls. It could have gotten really good.

*

A few hours ago Frank felt torn between sad that Neil was too crazy to come and Shaun didn’t want to come and happy that that meant Mikey could room with them. Sure it was Shaun’s decision. Like everything else in Tina’s life her parents are controlling her through lavish rewards, in this case bribing her with a fully paid education as long as she goes to one of the schools they’ve selected. All the applications she sent out were really theirs, and none of them were places Shaun applied to. Since they only have until the end of the summer to be together, he understand why Shaun would blow off a trip to New York. Those seniors that stayed home don’t have class, which means Shaun’s got over a hundred hours to spend with Tina. Neil had never been a question, he’s not even going to university because his agoraphobia is so bad. But it still made him sad to know that he wouldn’t get this experience with all his friends.

Now there’s no question. Fuck Shaun and fuck Neil. Mikey is in his room. Mikey is making out with him, and that’s something that never would have happened with Shaun. In the two weeks since his birthday they’ve had a lot of encounters. Mikey drives him home instead of John, and usually Mikey will find a back lane to pull into so they can get each other off. Then Frank goes to chill with his boys and girls, and Mikey goes out. They’ve got a friends with benefits thing going on, and while it’s not everything, it’s better than nothing. It’s more benefits than he gets with Hambone.

Frank’s in just his boxers, lying on his side. Mikey’s close enough that he can feel his erection through the two layers of fabric. Their hands are chaste, but their hips are rocking. From the way Mikey’s kissing him he thinks they’re going to do this even with John and Tim in the bed beside them. But they’re sleeping, so it’s okay. It’s not wrong if they don’t know it’s happening.

“Frank do you want a blowjob?” Frank’s first reaction is probably the typical reaction of every teenage male ever. He gets even harder and the only word on the tip of his tongue is ‘duh’. Then Frank’s human brain comes back and writes over his caveman brain. It’s not just a question, it’s a question that means something.

“You don’t do blowjobs.” Frank’s a bit of a masochist, or at the very least he's trying his best to stay a realist. Whenever he starts to care about Mikey he asks for details about one of the nights Mikey’s spent out. He can’t afford to mix up what they have with what he wants. Mikey probably thinks he’s some sort of audio-voyeur, but it’s better than falling head over heels. So he knows in the three years he’s been going out Mikey’s only given two blowjobs.

“Yeah. I don’t. But I want to for you.” Mikey deliberately grinds his dick against Frank’s. It’s enough to make his eyes water. “I mean, I’m obviously hoping you reciprocate. Like the ancient judges used to say, an eye for an eye, head for head, but you don’t have to.”

Frank’s not sure if he wants to. Not because he’s a scared oral virgin, and not because he’s ashamed of doing it with his friends across the room. It’s just it will be so much easier to ascribe meaning to this that isn’t there. “Uh.”

Mikey pushes his hips forward again. “Frank, you know I haven’t touched a guy in a week, right?”

How the hell would he know that? He can’t go out with Mikey. He hasn’t since the first night in the abandoned school. It’s too depressing. Also, the statement doesn’t make sense at all. Frank’s seen him in gym and at lunch every day, he’s been in perfect health. “You didn’t go out?”

“No, I did. I just didn’t hook up.”

Granted, Frank’s only known Mikey about two months. But he’s had the same habits ingrained since fourteen, fresh on the scene. “Why not?”

“I like you.” Mikey rolls his hips like Frank is a fucking hoola hoop. “I like you enough to want to blow you. So?”

Which is exactly the fucking problem. He likes him _enough_. But everything is piling in on the other side, he’s hard and Mikey’s hard and blinking at him like an owl without his glasses. It’s the first time he’s seen Mikey without them on, and it’s a heavy weight on the ‘go ahead’ side of the scale. Frank collapses. Mikey only wants him _enough_ , but at least Mikey’s a good guy to have a first time with.

In one quick move he pulls away from Mikey, tugs the covers over his head, and shimmies down the bed. Like an ostrich, if he can’t see John and Tim they can’t see him. Mikey arches his hips so Frank can slide down his underwear, and then that’s it. There’s nothing left to do but go down on him.

Frank’s got a urge to wake up Neil and ask him if there’s so mathematical equation that can explain how something that seems normally sized when in hand is ridiculously large when in a mouth. Because, god, he’s not even getting his lips to slide down more than half way before it triggers his gag reflex. Frank doesn’t pull off to puke, he’s a teenager that can handle his alcohol. But it’s not very fucking impressive. He sort of feels like he should be apologising for the shitty work.

Mikey doesn’t seem to think so, a fact which is made obvious when Mikey comes in his mouth. Without warning Frank first, nothing so much as a tug on his hair. It’s not that it’s _bad_ , it’s sort of like liquid salt, it’s just shitty manners. Frank punches Mikey in the thigh to let him know it’s not cool.

Of course, then Mikey moves down the bed and pushes him into a sitting up position, legs out in a v, Mikey between them. As soon as Mikey’s mouth descends Frank completely forgets about anything other than ‘if I scream they’ll wake up and Mikey will probably stop’. His hands bunch in the mess of sheet and comforter, he nearly bites a hole in his lip, but he manages to prevent himself from rousing the entire hotel. He comes in what seems like moments, stammering out an apology only after Mikey’s already swallowed.

“Whatever. I’m gonna crash now.” Mikey moves his arm in the bedding, picking out the white briefs from the white sheets in the darkness like magic. He performs a complicated movement that gets them back on without him having to stand up, and flops back.

Frank casts an eye towards the bathroom, but in the end decides that lying down is a better move. Each room is getting a phone call at quarter after seven, so they can meet for continental breakfast. It’s currently after two AM. He scoots to the left edge of the bed and expects Mikey to do the same on his edge. That’s what guys that share beds do. Surely it still applies, even after having sex with the guy. Instead Mikey inches in close enough to smell his breath.

“That was fun,” are Mikey’s last words before his breath evens out. Frank whispers back ‘yeah,’ but he’s not sure Mikey hears him.

*

 **can i come pick you up?**

Frank arches and tries to see around Neil and Claire to the alarm clock. When even stretched he can’t see more than the top half of the numbers he hits his pillow to compress it. It’s quarter after nine. He checks his phone again, in case he got it wrong.

He didn’t, the message was from Mikey. Confused he texts back **what?** then **its like nine, we dont have time before and i dont want to go** and lastly **im at neils youll get lost**. It’s not that he’s against the concept of a booty call. It’s just by the time Mikey drives over and they trade handjobs there will be a line up at whatever club he’s going to, and he knows Mikey hates that. Mikey likes to arrive early, so he can scout out his entertainment as the stranger walks through the door.

On the other hand, Mikey might mean by his text is that he wants Frank to join him. Frank has had to turn down a few invites, he thought enough by now to get the point across that he’s not going to be coming out with Mikey to a place that has a million temptations. Any chastity declaration made on their senior trip Frank considers nullified. It’s been nearly three weeks, he knows from hickies he hasn’t made that Mikey’s had other guys. The only thing worse than knowing Mikey’s been having fun would be actually being ditched to witness it at a club.

 **tell me where he lives** Frank snorts, but sends the address. Unless he’s sitting at his computer with mapquest on screen Mikey’s screwed. He snorts again when Mikey texts back he knows where it is.

“Hey Frank?” He looks up from his phone over at Neil. “Guess how much snot I like on my bed? None!”

“What a shocker!” Frank replies. He presses down on one nostril with his index finger and makes as if to blow a chunk out. Neil dives over Claire to punch him in the thigh. Claire responds by turning the volume of Family Guy up a few more notches.

By the time they’re done wrestling, Franks’ got three messages from Mikey. **seriously, not gonna get lost** , followed by **would neil care** and the last is **no i don’t feel like a club. can i come get you?** because Mikey is bad for responding to messages in reverse order.

Frank looks over at Neil and Claire. It’s not that he feels like a third wheel, not really. Any time he goes over to one of his friends’ houses there’s a high probability their girlfriend will be over too. And the girls are all his friends too. Obviously if any of them broke up he’d choose John or Neil or Shaun or Tim, but he can’t see it happening. Shaun and Tina know they’ve only got until August so they’re trying to keep everything pleasant. Tim and Kelly break up multiple times a day, and nothing ever comes of it. And he’s not the only one that thinks John and Zoe will get married in ten years. While they’re all happy with each other, Frank is happy to enjoy their happiness. He’s also realistic, and knows that when he hangs out with a single couple, he’s being a cock block. They care about him, but they won’t be upset if he leaves.

So Frank checks to make sure he has enough money for a cab, just in case it’s some sort of trick to try to get him to come to a bar. Assured of his ability to escape if need be, he texts back **yes**.

He waits for Mikey’s text of **outside** before leaving. They make a token protest, but Frank’s willing to bet money that before he’s entirely down the sidewalk they’re making out. He has to stand with his door on the handle while Mikey throws his crap in the back, then drops in and clicks his seat belt closed. “Where are we going?”

“Didn’t have a plan. Wanna Bonnie and Clyde it? Or Thelma and Louise?”

“I like that song!” Frank bursts into the chorus of the Horrorpops song and Mikey twiddles his fingers on the steering wheel in the same beat, both of them doing their own thing over the sounds of Daft Punk coming from the CD player. It doesn’t surprise him at all that Mikey knows it, Mikey knows all the music in the world.

They drive until Mikey pulls to a stop in front of a school. They idle for a minute, Mikey’s silent and Frank’s not entirely sure why he’s stopped. Then he says “Let’s hop the fence.” Frank scoffs for a second. It’s December eighth, it’s a bit ridiculous. But Mikey is looking at him, shades of emotions that Frank can’t really read on his face. For some reason Mikey wants this, and Frank isn’t in the habit of telling his friends no.

It’s easy enough to scale it, it’s the drop to the ground that stings. He scrapes his hand, but it’s not bad enough to bleed, so Frank considers it a win. Mikey leads the way to the swings. The chill of the chain eats through his actual gloves in seconds, he can’t imagine Mikey’s fingerless gloves are helpful at all. But he’s not his fucking mother, and at least they’re both wearing jackets. Mikey lights a cigarette and after he takes a drag he passes it to Frank. They sit, silently passing it as they kick their legs, not enough to really start swinging, but enough to sway. There’s this anticipation Frank can feel crawling all over him, even though he doesn’t know what he could be waiting for. He hopes they’re not going to have sex on the slide or something, it seems wrong. Little kids play here, it’s bad enough that they’re going to infect the air with tar and ammonia and whatever the other poisonous ingredients are in his smokes. At least he’s going to stick the butt in his pocket once he’s done. If they come on something, Frank’s got no way of cleaning it up.

“So, yeah,” Mikey starts, almost like he’s picking up on a conversation they had earlier, “I was thinking we should be boyfriends.”

“What?” Frank nearly falls off the swing.

“Well, I’m only getting off with you.”

Mikey lying to him is bullshit, he’s seen the fucking hickies, but Frank doesn’t want to get into it right now. So he swerves around it with “don’t forget to add the part where we’re truly madly deeply in love each other.”

He picks up on the reference Frank didn’t even mean to make. “I’ll be your hope, I’ll be your love, be everything that you need? Yeah, that could work.”

“You don’t need to say you want me forever to get a second blowjob.” Frank snaps. Bottom line, Frank cannot tolerate a friends with benefits relationship that mocks love. It’s cruel and awful and he just fucking won’t. Even if saying no to sex means that things with Mikey are entirely fucked forever, it’s the one line he can’t cross.

Mikey reaches over and shoves his shoulder hard, making the swing turn awkwardly with the force. “Assface. I fucking like you, okay.”

Somehow it’s easier to believe it at eleven at night freezing his balls off in a elementary school than it is in a hotel bed in New York. “Okay.”

He doesn’t have an explanation for the bruises littering Mikey’s neck, but chalks it up to the past. He doesn’t care about what Mikey used to do, doesn’t even care if Mikey had a orgy while he was watching cartoons with Neil and Claire. It doesn’t matter any more, now that Mikey is his. At least, Frank assumes that’s what boyfriends means to Mikey. He’s never had a conversation about it, if the Klaus thing doesn’t count. “Monogamous?”

“Of course. Assface,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, before shoving at the swing again.

“If that’s going to be my pet name, can I just suggest that cupcake and sweetums are far more pleasant?”

This time he entirely expects the shove and jumps off the swing to avoid it. Instead he grabs a freezing chain with each hand to stop Mikey from moving, bends down, and kisses him. A real kiss, a _you’re fuckin’ mine, now_ kiss. Mikey doesn’t seem to disapprove.

*

With great power comes responsibility. Frank might not actually _like_ Spiderman -honestly, who would? He seems like a bit of a bitch, all ‘whyyyy me’ all the time. He needs to man up and accept his destiny.- but he’s a teenage male, and there is a state regulation that half his thoughts must be pop culture related. Quality of a tv show or film had nothing to do with being able to quote it. So Frank knows Spiderman quotes, and uses them when relevant. Similarly, with great boyfriend comes the need to show him off. And that is a far harder prospect than Peter Parker has in saving people; Frank doesn’t have any radioactive insects to help him. But because he’s a real man, not a bitch, he’s going to do what he’s got to do.

It’s not like his friends don’t know how awesome Mikey is, they’ve been having lunches together for almost four months. Still, right now Mikey is just a dude that they eat lunch with while poking at Frank to make a move. They all know about Halloween. While he only sent Zoe the email, he’s utterly positive she sent it to everyone else. He hadn’t told them about any of the rest of it, they would have only given him stupid advice about telling Mikey about his needs. Frank doesn’t regret not telling them. Things worked out perfectly without having to have awkward clingy conversations, and there’s no telling if Mikey would have shied away from it earlier.

The night before, after they blew each other in the car, Frank asked Mikey to let him handle things. Mikey shrugged, and nothing was brought up during lunch. But when Zoe texts him to let him know that there’s an Xbox party and he’s invited, Frank takes the opportunity to call Mikey and ask if he’s doing anything.

Zoe’s place is the best for video games. The Epsteins have every console known to man, every game ever produced, and not one, but two large screen tvs on opposite sides of the basement. Apparently there used to be epic battles between Zoe and Zacharias about whether a zombie game or a sports game was the better way to spend the night, and the parents decided to solve the problem by throwing money at it. If Frank had a sibling, he’s pretty sure his parents would first consult their church group, and then take the tv away completely until they could come to an agreement, but he’s rather fond of the Epstein’s solution.

Frank can tell at the stop of the stairs that some of his friends are playing Left 4 Dead, and the others are playing Rockband. It’s definitely Rockband, not a later version of Guitar Hero, he recognises the song. He stops three steps down, where, if they’re actually looking over, which is unlikely considering the need for exacting attention in both games, they can only see his socked feet, not Mikey’s behind him. “I brought my boyfriend,” he calls out. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“What?” Tina shouts out.

Frank takes the rest of the stairs as quickly as he can, Mikey following behind him. He can’t help but grin as all his friends look at Mikey, and Mikey just looks between screens, as if deciding the better option. The next thing he knows he’s getting tackled by two hundred and fifty pounds of girl. He goes down hard, the carpeting not really softening the fall.

“I’m so fucking happy for you!” she shouts, face inches away from his. Frank would say thanks, but her exuberance is crushing his lungs.

“Zoe! Come on, fuck! We don’t have any overdrives, you’re gonna die!” Zoe scrambles back off him and starts moaning the lyrics of Creep again. Mikey drifts to the zombie side of the room, and the next time they have a stopping point, Claire gives him a controller.

And that’s it. Aside from Shaun saying ‘congrats, man’, and John punching him in the thigh, there’s no other recognition. Of course, it’s not really his friends that needed to know.

He brings it up on the car ride home. It’s early for a Friday night, but Frank wants to do this now. There’s no reason to wait, he’s not a pussy or self-hating. If he’d stayed out with his friends until the Epsteins kicked everyone out at one am, his parents would be asleep.

“I’m gonna tell them too. You might want to wait in the car for a bit? In case they’re. Well. They might not be very happy. You could drop me off at John’s? Or I could go home with you. If your parents wouldn’t care. Do they know?” Frank’s still never been to the Way’s, even though he thinks he knows more about Gerard than anyone in the world. To be fair though, Mikey has never come inside his house either.

“Me and Gee basically did at the same time. Well, mine was more hypothetical than his, he’d just had sex with a guy and was freaking out and decided he had to tell them, and I joined in because having sex with guys didn’t seem like a bad idea. And like a week or two after I went to my first rave, and...” Mikey shrugs. Frank can finish the sentence himself, he knows perfectly well one of the two blowjobs Mikey gave on the scene was his first night out. “Donna and Don didn’t really care.” Frank still can’t get over the calling your parents by their first name thing. It’s weird. “They won’t care if you need to sleep over. Or if you just _want_ to sleep over.”

Mikey has to double park when they get to Frank’s house. Frank doesn’t really pay attention to the movements Mikey’s making until he’s halfway up the sidewalk and he realises Mikey’s behind him, keys making a bulge in the side of his skin tight jeans. Frank doesn’t know whether to be grateful or not. Mikey in the room will change things. It will make it more real to his parents, and he doesn’t know if that’s good thing or not, that they can’t wave away his revelation. He thinks desperately of his stash in his room. This would be so much easier if he was stoned.

They’re watching some crime drama. One of the CSIs, probably, the brief second Frank takes to look at the tv there’s a girl with blood prettily sprayed over her.

“Hey. Mom? Dad?”

“Frank, who’s this?” His dad doesn’t bother to mute the tv, but he looks up which Frank considers a win.

“I’m Mikey. Mikey Way.” Mikey gives a half-assed wave. It’s cute enough that in other circumstances Frank would feel the urge to kiss him. Right now all he feels is the need to stop himself from throwing up.

Frank’s got the perfect opportunity to pass Mikey off as a friend. Instead he hums a lyric from When You’re Young. _Stand and decide, stand and decide, stand and decide. Never say die, never say die, never say die_. He’s got to do this, and he’s got to do it before he loses his father’s attention.

“That’s Mikey, and he’s my boyfriend.” His father wordlessly presses the power button the remote and Frank hears the strange bell noise the tv makes when it turns on or off. Frank thinks he might vomit.

“Frank-” his mom starts.

Frank shakes his head, letting his hair stay where it falls into his eyes. “No. I don’t want to hear it. He’s my boyfriend, because I’m gay. That means I like guys. Okay? Don’t answer that, I don’t care if it’s okay.” His vaguely aware that he’s getting louder and louder, trying to drown out the white noise that is somehow radiating from his parents faces. “I don’t care, because he’s my fucking boyfriend, and we’ve been together for awhile, and that’s not going to stop just because you don’t like it!”

“Frank-” his mom says again.

“Some people like girls, some people like boys. Regardless of what it says in the bible, it’s fucking true facts! I like guys!” Frank’s working on sheer bluster at this point. At least until he feels Mikey take a step closer to him and remembers what he’s fighting for. “When I come home, sometimes he will be coming with me! Because that’s what happens with boyfriends. They come into your house! No more driving around for hours, being fucking scared!”

“Frank, I really-”

“Really what? Really nothing! Nothing is going to change this, I don’t care what happens when you go talk to your group on Sunday!” Fuck, he’s so full of shit. If their Sunday group convinces them to kick him out, he’s so fucked. Maybe he’ll be able to convince Tim to move out and they can live in squalor together. “And don’t even think about trying to instill a premarital sex rule! Because guess what? I’ll die a virgin, thanks to this fine Republican country we live in! But we don’t care, we don’t need rights, we’ll never stop!”

“Mikey can’t come over every night.” his father says firmly. “I’m sure your mom and dad like seeing your face. And no, Frank, that isn’t an invitation to spend every night at Mikey’s. The same rule still applies. No curfew, but you’re in your bed when your mother comes to wake you up in the morning.”

It’s like being slapped in the face. It’s like running miles through the woods being chased by a bear, only to turn around and find the bear napping. Frank’s entire body is shaking with adrenaline, and he can hardly stand in place. Nearly a minute after his father’s words, he manages a single word. “What?”

“Frank. It’s not as though we didn’t suspect. You’re seventeen, and you’ve never had a girlfriend. Marlene and Steven informed us Rebekah said you barely paid attention to her.”

He stares. There’s nothing else to do. Then Mikey puts his hand on the small of his back. It’s electric, Frank can almost feel the jolt shooting out of him and up the vein of Mikey’s arm. It somehow takes the edge off his shaking, and he can get out an entire sentence. “But... God. And bible. And for fucksakes, you asked me if I was celibate!” So maybe it’s not the most coherent of sentences.

“The passages that mention homosexuality are open to interpretation, as many passages are. If others choose to believe it’s a sin, that’s their reading. Ours can be different. God knows you, Frank. He knows everything, and he loves everything about who you are.”

Frank is still shaking when Mikey slides his hand into his. He’s not sure he can stop shaking, not when nothing about this makes sense. “But I-”

“Mr and Mrs Iero, Frank and I are going to go for a drive.”

“You don’t have to, Mikey. We’re perfectly fine with you hanging out here.”

“We’re gonna drive and listen to music. I’ll bring him back.” And Mikey is steering him out of the house, and down the sidewalk, and opens the passenger door for him, and it’s the first time he hasn’t had to wait for crap to be relocated before he can sit, which makes sense, he was in the car just minutes ago, but it still seems weird. Every fucking thing in the world is weird.

“What the fuck?” he asks when Mikey climbs in on the other side.

Mikey doesn’t answer, just fiddles with his iPod, the tiny square of metal resting in the cup holder. The music doesn’t come out very loud from the headphones, but it’s unmistakably Bouncing Souls. And that’s the moment Frank falls sort of in love with him.

*

Mrs Aguirre lets the class know before she takes attendance that they’ll be going to the auditorium for an assembly shortly. Nate snorts, and Alex Johnson tosses his binder into his backpack, stands and says “Yeah, I’ll just take an absent. And detention, I guess. Later.” before walking out. Frank’s sentiments exactly. Every year Hawthorne gives the same speech on the last day before winter break, and on the first day back. Exams come three days after everyone gets back, they all need to buckle down, and use their three weeks off to study.

Sure enough, after every homeroom fills their allotted row of folding chairs, Hawthorne starts up. Frank bets somewhere in the audience Joe is staring into space but that’s Pete’s or Patrick’s or Andy’s concern, not his. Right now all he can really think about is how he really _really_ likes Mikey but this gay thing doesn’t seem to be working out.

The morning had started off nicely. Frank wasn’t really one to look a gift horse in the mouth. As soon as he had come to terms with the fact that his parents actually were fine with him being gay, with Mikey sleeping over - which had been a series of phone calls from Mikey’s car at around midnight - he’d used it to their advantage. Regardless of his mom’s proclamation that it couldn’t be every night, it’s been a week and Mikey’s been beside him for all of it. One of the benefits of Mikey sleeping over was his mom no longer walked straight into his bedroom to shake him awake, which was the only possible way of getting him up. Instead she just knocked on the door, the rapping enough to wake Mikey, and let him deal with the task. Or as Mikey liked to call it, the epic battle of Frank vs Reality.

Frank’s attention is draw back to Hawthorne as the man uses the phrase ‘buckling down’, mainly because Adam, two seats to his left, giggles as the guy beside him quietly starts to mock Hawthorne. Normally it would be prime entertainment, the only thing that would keep him awake during such a useless thing. But it’s nothing compared to Frank’s discomfort. Every time he moves on the folding chair his ass stings. It’s ridiculous.

Mikey wasn’t one for sweet talk or cajoling. Neither was he fond of his mom’s method, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him. The threads of self preservation that stopped Frank from ever striking out, even mostly asleep and entirely pissed, didn’t exist when it wasn’t his mother doing the bothering. Mikey didn’t like being hit or elbowed, so he used a third method. He used Frank’s morning wood against him.

Frank shifts again and hisses. Hawthorne coughs once and says “And for the first time, I am pleased to introduce a group that will help drive the point home. Please give a Carleton welcome to D.A.R.E.”

The auditorium goes silent as five hundred students all suddenly desperately believe in sci-fi, much like prison born agains, and try to teleport away. It doesn’t work in Frank’s case, which only makes everything even more shitty. Like he needs to hear some lecture about the evils of drugs and how pot is being sold to him by terrorists, and how his joint funded 9/11 after the morning he’s had.

Frank woke up to Mikey jerking him off. It wasn’t anything that hadn’t happened Monday through Thursday, but that didn’t mean he didn’t fucking love it. Just when Frank was arching off the bed, toe curling, Mikey stopped. “Do you want to fuck?”

“We were!” Frank nearly wailed.

“No, I mean actual fucking. The kind gay guys do.”

To be honest Frank hadn’t really thought much about it. Mikey spending nearly twenty four hours a day with him -only different classes and a few hours after school to make an appearance with his parents separating them- had led to frequent sex. Shaun and Tim had never told him about getting off three or four times in a day when they’d regaled him with reasons why he should get a girlfriend. It seemed like a great selling point, so the only think Frank could figure was girls didn’t want sex as often as guys did. Still, blowjobs were still a novelty to him, as was having a bed they could dry hump in. Though he wasn’t sure if it was still called that when both parties were naked. But if Mikey wanted to he wasn’t going to say no.

“I guess we don’t need a condom.” Frank trusted Mikey, trusted in their monogamy. Mikey was the kind of guy that would tell him if having sex with only one guy was boring him. And even if he didn’t fully trust him, handjobs didn’t lead to diseases.

“We don’t need them, but I’ve got one if you don’t want me to come in your ass.” Mikey was smiling at him, squinting without his glasses. Frank’s dick pulsed. The idea seemed pretty fucking hot.

“Nah, we don’t need them.”

Frank looks up at the stage. From what he can tell from the pathetic dialogue, and the person pretending to run into a big cardboard cut out, somebody just freaked out and saw monsters after taking his first hit of marijuana and ran out of the house and onto the street and got hit by a car. There is a powerpoint set up that flips to ‘taking hits means taking hits’, and Frank’s soul dies a little bit.

After Frank had talked to, hung up on, talked to, hung up on, pattern on repeat for about ten phone calls last Friday, Mikey had driven them to an all night convenience store. He’d taken Frank into the ‘personal’ aisle, past the shampoo and the pads to the tiny shelf of sex stuff. Twenty different kids of condoms, and space and tags for three different brands of lube, but there were only two. Mikey had chosen cherry over passion-fruit, and once they were back in the car, he’d gotten his first lubricated handjob. It was better than the dry kind, and after that they’d just continued to use it.

Mikey opened the bottle and squirted some on his fingers, used his other hand to spread the liquid on the knuckleside. He sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed his fingers down the crease of his ass before sticking a finger in. Frank’s first impression was weird. It didn’t feel bad, it was just his ass didn’t want it. But Mikey slid his finger in further, and it was like his ass gave up and just accepted it. Mikey wiggled it a bit before drawing out and pushing in two. It was the same, not bad, just weird.

“Dude, this is pretty fucking lame.” Frank thought it was Dr Phil of him, being honest with bed partners.

“No. Once you’ve got my dick it’ll be different. Remember sex ed? Remember prostates? It’ll be better then.” Mikey pulled his fingers out then asked “Do you want to be on your back, or your hands and knees?”

Frank pictured them both for only a second before deciding. He didn’t want to look like a girl with his ankles by his ears. “Hands and knees,” he said, and rolled over.

All around Frank are students shrinking in their seats, shuffling until it’s more their back on the metal than their ass. He’s not sure why, but he trusts the hive mind and does it too. He figures it out a second later when one of the peppy people jumps off the stage and grabs the hand of an extremely reluctant girl. Crowd volunteers, what a fucking nightmare.

Mikey’s dick was against his ass, and it seemed way too fucking big to be possible. But Mikey pushed in, one rough movement. Apparently he was the kind of person that ripped a bandaid off instead of peeling it. Inside him, it seemed even more impossible. His eyes were watering with the pain of it. “Ow. Fuck ow.”

He thrusted, and it was like Mikey was trying to to rip him apart. Frank moved forward trying to get off but Mikey moved with him. In annoyance Frank raised one arm behind him and shoved Mikey hard. Mikey inadvertently pulled out as he scrambled to hold into the blanket they were weighing down so he didn’t fall off the bed. Frank didn’t even care.

“So that didn’t work. Want me to jerk you off?”

Frank shook his head. “I’m not hard anymore. Let’s just go eat breakfast.”

Frank can’t stop replaying the entire event in his head. He likes Mikey, wants to be his boyfriend forever. But if being gay means doing that, than he’s not sure how it’s going to be possible to stay with him.

*

When they wake up they both check their phones. It’s as automatic as breathing, and if that says something bad about children of the twenty first century, well, Frank’s okay with being what’s wrong with the world today, as long as he gets his texts. Frank has two unread; a message from John late last night wanting to know if he wants to drive around and get high, and one from a half an hour ago asking the same thing. It’s pretty obvious to Frank how Hambone’s planning on spending his vacation. Frank wouldn’t be surprised if he even managed to smoke up on Christmas day. Frank’s considering answering, he and Mikey can go join John and Zoe. The more lungs the easier it is to hotbox. It’ll be a good way to spend the first technical day of vacation, Saturday and Sunday not counting.

Mikey’s got a different idea. He’s lying on his back, phone held in front of his face as he scrolls through messages. Frank’s taken peeks, Mikey’s usually got fifty compared to his three or four. He grins at one, and rolls onto his side so he’s facing Frank. “We need to go over to my house.”

“What?” He still hasn’t been to the Way’s. It’s just automatic now that Mikey drops Frank off, goes for a few hours, and comes back with a change of clothes to spend the night. In his more stoned moments, Frank thinks that Mikey might be an alien, that he doesn’t actually have family on this planet.

“Gerard texted me. He’s on his way. It’s about a forty five minute drive, so he’ll be there this afternoon, if not then at dinner.”

Frank arches his neck so he can look at his clock. He didn’t think they’d slept in that late, three pm wake ups tend to only happen during the third week of vacation, in just enough time to make the first morning back to school a fucking horrorshow. His instincts are right, it’s only noon. “Um?”

Mikey’s still smiling, but he adds a shake of his head. “You don’t know my brother. If he sees something interesting or inspiring he’ll pull over and take out his sketchbook and go with it.”

“Seriously?” Not that Frank’s entirely surprised, from the stories he’s heard Gerard is an artist with a capital A.

“Once he parked the car on a bridge because he wanted to draw the light bouncing off the metal. It was a one lane bridge, Frank. He got a six hundred dollar fine. Honestly, he’s probably the worst person in the world to road trip with. But I want to be there for when he gets home, so.”

Mikey tosses his part of the blanket to the side and slides out of bed. Frank takes a moment to appreciate both the warmth that comes from the suddenly doubled covers and his naked boyfriend. His naked boyfriend who is hard. Mikey doesn’t pay attention to it, just grabs his jeans and a new shirt from his backpack. He pushes his dick into his underwear before pulling his jeans up, adjusting so he doesn’t zip over himself.

“I could take care of that?”

“Nah. What if I’m wrong and he’s already almost home?” Frank’s not even offended that Mikey’d rather be waiting for Gerard over having sex with him. Sex between them happens multiple times a day, but it’s been months since Mikey’s seen his brother.

They say bye to Frank’s mom and dad as they pass out of the house and Frank tries to not think about meeting Mr and Mrs Way. They’re probably at work, but there’s a possibility they’ll be home. He’s never asked Mikey what his parents do. For all he knows they both work night shifts and he’s going to be interrupting their sleep, and then they’ll hate him, which would fucking suck. He doesn’t want them to hate him. He’s not that much different from Mikey. They both like music and video games, they’re both sort of spazzy. If they like their son, they have to like him. Right?

His worries are for nothing. Once Mikey frowns at the lack of car in the driveway he pulls into, he takes Frank straight to his bedroom. He doesn’t even get the chance to see if the Ways are home, never mind have a conversation with them. Mikey’s room is a duplicate of his car, the mess made no better by the difference in size. Actually, it seems worse, because there’s more volume for the clothes and books and CDs to expand in.

“So, this is me.” Mikey says, waving his arm around.

“Yeah,” Frank replies. “Between the mess and that you can’t see your wallpaper for the posters, and dude, you have an entire section devoted to the Misfits, that’s fuckin’ cool, yeah, I think I could have guessed. Also, you did bring me in here, I figure you wouldn’t have brought me into your parents room.”

“You want to watch a movie?”

Frank takes a look at the floor, he can see edges of at least a dozen burned dvds under clothes and being used as bookmarks. If he had the nerve to hazard touching it, Mikey’d probably have good stuff to watch. On the other hand, “well, you’re still hard and your brother’s not home...”

“You make a very good point.” Mikey wriggles out of his clothes and falls onto the bed, not bothering to kick the blankets out of the way first. Frank shrugs. It’s not like Mikey spends much time in it anyway, he probably doesn’t care if it gets stained. Frank strips by the door, where there’s the least amount of mess to contaminate his stuff, and joins Mikey on the edge of the bed.

“I’m going to suck you until you scream,” he says conversationally.

“Try,” Mikey retorts. Frank considers it a battle, even more the lovely for how it will end in them both winning. He sticks out his tongue and licks a slow line up the length of his cock, loving the way it makes Mikey shudder. The trick with Mikey is to go slow, glacially slow, until his thighs are shaking, and then speed up until he comes in your mouth. He’s done it enough to know, just like Mikey knows what he likes. It’s fucking nice, dating someone that knows how to touch his balls properly.

From his angle, he can’t see what Mikey’s doing, but he can feel him arch. His dick getting shoved further into his mouth is a major fucking clue. Then Mikey folds a knee up, nearly taking him out. They seem to be having a communication breakdown, which is totally plausible considering that Frank can’t talk with a dick in his mouth, and Mikey isn’t very vocal in bed.

He’s about to pull off and ask ‘what the fuck’ when suddenly there’s a smell of watermelon. Not real watermelon, but the plasticky, fake dental office shit. Mikey’s arm is curled under his right thigh, hand on his own ass. Frank moves his head back a fraction, just in time to see Mikey press two fingers into himself. Frank’s not sure if it’s the sight, or the noise Mikey makes, but he can’t help but grind himself against Mikey’s bed. It’s a pillowtop mattress, way too soft for any good friction. He can’t look away, he doesn’t want to even blink his eyes.

Mikey adds a third finger and groans, mutters something. Frank asks and Mikey says it louder. “I want you to fuck me.”

Frank thinks back to Friday and winces. “You don’t have to do this. In fact, I recommend against it.”

“Frank, I want you to. Please.”

It’s the last word that does it. Frank’s a teenage male, he can’t remember the last time someone his age in his acquaintance said please. He sure as fuck has never heard it from someone naked, in bed with him, hard and open. He swallows the invisible something that’s settled in his throat, making it hard to breath, and says “I think we need more lube.”

Mikey tosses him the container. It’s the same brand as the bottle that’s tucked under Frank’s pillow, Frank would be willing to bet Mikey got it from the same convenience store. He flips open the cap and sneezes as watermelon bursts into his nostrils, but forgives the scent because of what it means. He squirts some on his fingers, probably too much. He watches the way it runs down the space between his fingers, slowly oozing onto his hand.

“Frank, fucksakes. Come on.”

He doesn’t understand the rush, not when he knows what comes next, but he’ll do it for Mikey. They can do it once, and then it won’t be just Frank being an inadequate gay, it’ll be both of them knowing their boundaries. Frank shuffles until he’s closer to Mikey, and Mikey pulls his fingers out, knuckles brushing Frank’s cock for a moment before relocating his to the side of his ribcage. Frank presses against Mikey, then pushes in, past the resistance. The entire world changes. He bites his lip, and tries not to come immediately, counting backwards from one hundred. He gets to ninety six before he gets impatient and thrusts forward. If this is how he felt stretched around Mikey he can see why Mikey didn’t want to stop. The only word for it is amazing.

Still, he doesn’t want Mikey to be feeling what he felt, so he asks “You alright?”

“Fuckin’ fuck me!” Mikey demands. Frank obliges, snapping forward before drawing back. Each movement is heat and pressure on his cock, he never wants to stop. Mikey’s into it too, he’s whimpering, and Frank’s never heard something so fucking sexy before. None of the porn he watched had people whimpering.

He doesn’t last long. It’s impossible to hold back, not with the way it all _feels_. After he comes, -holy fuck, he _came_ in Mikey’s _ass_ \- he flops down onto Mikey and grinds himself on his boyfriend. He’s seeing stars, he doesn’t really have the capability of a decent handjob, but he can at least provide a surface for Mikey to rut against.

It’s in the afterglow that he realises _Mikey liked it_ , and what that means. Like flipping a switch, all the endorphins or hormones or whatever stop flowing and Frank sits up. “I’m gonna leave for a bit. Give you and Gerard some private brotherly time. I’ll meet him later, ‘kay? Fuckin’ text me.”

Mikey’s still too high from orgasm to think anything of it. “‘Kay.”

It’s not fair. It’s just not fucking fair, and he’s got to get out before he makes a big deal of it. He’s being stupid. He shouldn’t be upset about Mikey liking getting fucked. It means good things for him, it means that he gets to fuck Mikey. But sometimes logic and emotion don’t really mix, and all Frank knows is that he’s fucking pissed about it. He gets dressed and leaves without even using the computer to pull up a transit map. He’ll figure it out, or he’ll walk home. Either’s better than getting into a fight.

*

The second time Frank goes over is a few days later, it’s thanks to Mikey’s text. **sorry, can’t drive. come over?** Frank thinks about it for a second, than looks up the bus schedule so he knows when he has to leave. There’s a car he doesn’t recognise in the driveway, but he has no way of telling if it’s Gerard, or Mr or Mrs Way’s.

The living room is a surprise for how full it is. He looks at Mikey, an unasked question on his lips. He’s only heard about Gerard, but there are four guys in the room, apart from Mikey. Two could nearly be twins, short and wearing all black with a pale complexion. Frank just barely recognises Gerard from the pictures on Mikey’s phone, his hair is a lot longer than it was whenever the pictures were taken. Of the two left, one is white-blond, like Mrs Way in Mikey’s pictures, the other a strawberry blond.

“Hey. I’m Frank.” He wants to tack on Mikey’s boyfriend but doesn’t. Christmas has a tendency to bring family together, even the ones you never want to see again. Frank has a couple of cousins that he and his parents only acknowledge the existence of on Christmas day. If Mikey dislikes these brothers so much he hasn’t even mentioned them, when he mentions Gerard every day, he’s probably not comfortable with them or out to them. Frank doesn’t want to make anything worse.

“I’m Gerard,” says the one on the edge of the couch, proving Frank’s guess right.

“Bert and Quinn,” the blond says, voice muffled by the brunet’s hair. The Gerard look alike is sitting on the blond, relaxed, like it’s just a few more bumps of a lumpy cushion, not knees and ribcage.

Bob is the one on the other couch, sitting beside Mikey. Frank eyeballs the space between and figures he’s not skinny enough to make it, and sprawling over a stranger, even a relation of your boyfriend, is something you probably don’t want to do within the first five minutes of meeting them. Then fate intervenes and Bob gets up to wrestle the remote out of Bert’s hand. Apparently he doesn’t take kindly to MTV. The moment he’s up Frank plops into his spot. It’s just like hanging with his friends, your chair is only yours as long as you’re actively in it, you can’t claim shit. Bob turns it to the cartoon network and glares at Frank, but he doesn’t beat him, which Frank appreciates. Bob looks like the kind of person that would beat down others.

Everyone just stares at the tv, and Frank knows this too. There’s a reason that there’s football on Christmas day. People that don’t like each other can bond over shouting at quarterbacks. Or snickering at Rocko’s Modern Life repeats, whatever. There’s not a lot of conversation until Gerard announces “I’m gonna get a Pepsi, anyone want something?”

“Cream soda?” Quinn requests.

“Dunno if we have.”

“Orange or grape. What fucking ever, something not cola.”

Gerard stands and Bert takes the chance to leap to his feet, which makes Bob, who’s sitting on the floor leaning against the couch, scramble out of the way before Bert steps on him. Seemingly automatically, Quinn stands too. Frank stays where he is. Gerard takes a few steps forward and Bert grabs his ass. “Want something. Want something? How about you and me and bed makes three?”

Gerard giggles and pulls out his his grip to leave the room. Frank thinks ‘okay, not a brother then’. Which begs the question “so who are you then?”

“Going senile at such a young age? It’s so sad Quinny!” Bert says and swoons against the blond. Quinn laughs and braces himself so they don’t collapse.

“I’m Bert,” he shouts. “This is Quinn, that’s Bob! Gerard is in the kitchen! That’s Mikey! Your name is Frank!” With each name Bert does action. Quinn gets crossed arms, Bob gets a pulled on skullcap, Gerard gets jazz hands, Mikey gets a dead face, and Frank gets Bert crouching down. Which is rich, because Bert looks at least an inch shorter than him. Not that Frank has a Napoleon complex or anything.

“No, really, are you cousins?” The Bert and Gerard thing would still be wrong, but not as bad. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense. During the holidays the Iero house is strictly for relatives.

“Well Gerard had to come home, and since I don’t have a home I thought I could follow my love bunny.” The snort takes any sweetness out of the words.

“I go where Bert goes,” Quinn says simply and Frank imagines a friendship like he and John have.

“I go where all three go to keep them out of trouble.” Bob explains. Just witnessing the last minute, Frank can see where Bert might need a bit of restraining, and Quinn and Gerard can’t be that much better if they’re Bert’s best friend and boyfriend.

“You mean because you’d be bored dead without us!” Bert makes as if to swoon again, this time towards Bob.

“Do it motherfucker.” Bob tells him. “I’m not catching you.” He doesn’t either, Bert plummets straight to the floor and lies there giggling.

“Who wants to smoke?” Bert proclaims about a half hour later.

“Me and Frank know this great place,” Mikey offers. Frank is sure it's a lie, but he’ll back Mikey up. If Mikey wants to impress Bert, for Gerard, he’s not going to stomp down on that. Hell, maybe Gerard will even end up doing the same, end up caring about what Frank thinks about something. Really, he should have gotten advice from Shaun about how to deal with family of a boyfriend.

“Lead the way, boyo!”

On the way out the door, after jackets are grabbed and shoes are put on, Quinn tosses his keys to Mikey. Which relieves some of the ‘who’s going in what car’ awkwardness, but not entirely. Because sure, Mikey’s driving. But does Frank get shotgun, because he’s the boyfriend they may or may not know about? Or does Gerard, because he’s the brother? Or Quinn, because it’s his car? Frank hesitates on the driveway, letting everyone brush by him. He hates this sort of etiquette shit. Luckily the problem is solved by Bob climbing up, and leaving the back of the van to them, him in the smaller middle seat, the rest in the larger backseat.

Frank smiles as Mikey pulls to a stop. They’re in front of what he considers ‘their school’, as lame as that might be. It doesn’t matter how lame it is, as long as he doesn’t say it out loud.

Once they’re on the blacktop, covered with a slick layer of slush, Bert and Quinn pull out pipes. Bert’s is nearly beautiful, swirls of blue and green within the glass, purple and orange flecks dotted over the swirls. Frank apologises for not having anything to contribute, Quinn just shrugs and tells him to bring with if he’s going to hang out again before they need to go back to school. The pipes circle the group, Frank looks down and sees the yellow paint beneath the thin covering. They’re standing on a four-square grid, and for some reason that seems funny enough that he coughs until he chokes.

After they’ll fully baked they wander to the play structure. Frank has to push snow off the swing he claims, but a wet ass totally worth it. Nothing’s better than swings when you’re high. He ignores everyone and just pumps his legs, and when he really gets going he tilts back. His head nearly scrapes the pebbles, and even with his eyes open he can’t see anything. It’s amazing.

His joy is interrupted with Bert hopping off his swing and declaring “let’s break into the school!”

“Uh...” Frank hates to be the party pooper but it sounds stupid. He’s cool with doing random shit while stoned, God knows he’s tried to make a sandwich only using his feet because Kelly dared him too, but not shit that’s going to get them arrested.

But before he has a chance to compose an argument more convincing than ‘that’s stupid’ Quinn jumps off his resting place on the slide and the two start their walk towards the school doors. Bob sighs and follows after them. Hopefully he’ll talk them out of it, but at the very least the three of them being further from the gate will give Frank, Mikey, and Gerard a better chance of escaping when the cops respond to an alarm at the school.

Gerard takes one of the now vacant swings beside Frank. “So you’re dating my brother.”

Frank takes a second to sit upright. It’s a conversation he’d been dreading, but somehow it doesn’t seem as horrible now that he’s stoned. “Yeah. And I hope this isn’t one of those hurt him and I’ll beat you to death with a shovel conversations. Those always seems so unrealistic.”

Gerard shakes his head, looking earnest. “No, Mikey can enjoy whatever he wants to enjoy. He doesn’t need me to tell him what’s okay. Also Buffy reference, very nice.”

“Five by five,” Frank responds before starting to pump again.

“We broke in!” Bert calls as he bounds over to them.

“If by broke in you mean bribed the custodian twenty bucks to let us wander.” Bob says, following more sedately.

“Don’t deny my skills Bryar!”

Mikey climbs down from his spot twirling the wheel attached to the structure, and Gerard and Frank hop off their swings. Quinn’s holding the door open.

“I’m gonna leave a note in every desk telling the kids to follow their dreams,” Gerard smiles.

Frank thinks that’s sweet, and so does Bert, if the kiss he pulls Gerard into is any indication, but he’s got goals that aren’t nearly as lofty. “Hey Mikey. Ever have sex in the janitor’s closet?”

“Can’t say I have!”

“Mikey, I love you, but if you’re in any way vocal, I will vomit, and then the custodian will kick our asses. And possibly call the cops. So-”

“I’m sure I can keep my mouth occupied,” Mikey snickers. Gerard shudders, and Bert pulls him into a second kiss to distract him. Frank grabs Mikey’s hand and they wander down the hallway looking for a door that isn’t plastered with artwork. Having sex in a second grade classroom would be wrong, but he really can’t see any moral objection to a room that consists of mops and pails.

*

“I’m going to kill David Stanhope,” Frank moans. Of course, it sounds like Dabid Stanhob, but the sentiment stays the same. Mikey knows what he means anyway, Frank texted the same message a half hour ago.

For the last week every communication they’ve had has been text based, either text messages or MSN. Even then it hasn’t been real conversation, Frank texts Mikey and he texts back over an hour later, or Mikey leaves almost two scrolled pages of random stuff on MSN for Frank to find when he wakes up. It sucks that they haven’t been hanging out, but there’s no choice, really. Their study habits are different and incompatible. Frank likes studying for half hours at a time. Everything he’s taken has a lot of definitions and so he’s got about a million home made recipe card flashcards, the word on one side, the definition on the other. Half an hour of quizzing himself, followed by an episode of something, or dinner, followed by another half hour works best for him. Mikey’s classes are different. Aside from math everything he’s taking is essay based, which means far more reading the textbooks and coming up with possible questions, and writing out the best possible answers. They tried together for one night, but Frank talks to himself as he flips through the cards, and Mikey needs long periods of silence. It’s not like not studying is an answer. As much as senior year is for slacking, failing a course won’t get you into the college of your choice.

Frank’s surprised to hear Mikey crash up the stairs. Frank had written his last in the morning, Ancient Civilizations, but Mikey’s had shitty scheduling and two of his five are tomorrow. Frank’s happy to see him, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be getting out of his blankets. He’s shivering, but out of sheer willpower he’s created a warm spot, and he’s not going to vacate it for anything in the world. Mikey settles onto the floor beside Frank’s bed, because unlike Mikey, Frank does know that cleanliness, if not next to godliness, is at least akin to not getting mice making burrows. There’s actually room for him to cross his legs on the carpet.

Mikey won’t be staying long, but for as long as he’s here Frank’s going to use him as a welcome ear to complain to. “Kill him dead, I swear. As soon as I get better.”

“Did you take any medication yet? Tylenol cold, or something?”

Frank just groans. He doesn’t want to get into why not. The spectacle that’s made in his house when he’s sick is worthy of jugglers and a big orange tent. It’s just easier to huddle in his bed and lie if his parents ask why he hasn’t left. Better for them to think he’s jerking off than knowing he’s sneezing.

“I hate everyone. Not just him, everyone. We are a dirty species, Mikey, and I hate all of us.”

“I know. We suck.” The thing Frank likes about complaining to Mikey is that he always agrees with whatever Frank's mad about. It's morale boosting.

“Seriously Mikey, vermin. We should be taken out and shot. A bullet for the entire world.” He punctuates his statement with a long sniff. Frank hates using kleenex. Not only does it make his nose bright red and ache as the tissues somehow get rougher the more he uses them, it’s also gross to have an entire garbage can full of expelled green illness.

“Bang bang, we’re dead.” Mikey’s agreement is also the problem though, because you can never be sure that Mikey isn’t being sarcastic. It sounds like song lyrics, a theory confirmed when Mikey goes on with “always so easily led, bang bang you’re de-e-ed, put all the rumors to bed.”

“No, really, what kind of society teaches people it’s okay to sneeze on other people!” He’d be shouting, if he didn’t know it would start a coughing fit. The last thing he needs is to end up dry heaving all over Mikey. “It was an exam, I couldn’t go and wash my neck. And now I am diseased.” Frank rolls onto his back and pointedly coughs into his hand. Even if no one else in the world is, he can still be sanitary.

Mikey stretches out his hand and puts it on Frank’s leg. Frank swears he can feel the warmth through the comforter. It must be the idea of actually being warm that leads him to ask, normally he hates people being all clingy when he’s ill. He was scarred for life against sickness related affection as a child, but he feels the weight of Mikey’s hand and it just comes out. “Just lay down with me until I fall asleep? The way I feel it won’t be long. Like five minutes. I know you need to go study.”

Mikey unhooks his glasses and puts them on Frank’s desk on top of the discarded flashcards. He balances on one foot as he takes his sock off the other, then switches. He sits on the edge of the bed as Frank does the noble thing of scooting out of the warm spot to give Mikey more than a sliver of room. Just as Frank lifts up the blanket so Mikey can crawl in, Mikey gets up and reaches for his glasses. “I’ll be right back.”

Frank watches him leave the room. He’s confused and shivering a little bit. He lets the blanket settle on him again, but it’s too late, the cold air has infiltrated.

Mikey comes back with a plastic cup and his hand outstretched, trying to pass something to him. “What are those?”

“Cough pills, they’ll help you sleep. Your mom gave them to me. They didn’t even know you were sick, dude.”

“You told them?” Frank’s not sure why he’s not getting mad, if it’s because he’s his boyfriend or if he’s just too tired. Honestly, it’s probably the latter. “You’re just giving me these so I’ll fall asleep faster so you can leave.”

Mikey rolls his eyes. “Yes, you’ve figured out my super secret ulterior motive in wanting you to get better. Swallow them or we’ll be abstinent for another week, asshole.”

As the idea of sex with Mikey was the only thing that got him through studying for Spanish, Frank takes Mikey’s threat seriously. He swallows the pills and puts the cup of water on the floor, then holds up the edge of the blanket again. Mikey slides in, chest pressed against his back. Frank angles his face towards the pillow as he snuggles closer. He doesn’t want to breathe his contaminated breath onto Mikey.

*

Frank's never been more happy about dating a guy than he is today. Of the both of them, it’s pretty obvious he’s the more romantic one, and since he can see clearly through the gauze and velvet of Valentine’s Day, it’s safe to say that Mikey sees it for the crap that it is. Which isn’t to say they can’t enjoy themselves, of course.

Mikey still wakes up first, still wakes Frank with a blowjob. Once he’s coherent enough, Frank still pushes and pulls at Mikey until Mikey’s turned around and they’re both sucking at each other. But after Frank’s spent, he runs downstairs to the kitchen. Like the last seventeen Valentines, Frank’s dad has picked up a box of the pink iced doughnuts from the bakery down the street. He has to wake up horribly early to get them, the bakery is double staffed the entire day as the foot traffic doubles. They’re worth it though. Hell, they’re so good Frank would consider waking up at six in the morning to get them.

Unlike previous years, Frank doesn’t open the box and examine them for the one with the most amount of icing, and then eat it over the sink in case a bit of the creme filling squirts out. Instead he takes the entire dozen -minus the two his dad has already snagged on his way to work- and goes back upstairs. Breakfast is served.

In the car, Frank sticks in his specially burned CD. It’s a mix of romance songs, Manson’s If I Was Your Vampire, and Korn’s ADIDAS, and Nekromantix’s Light My Fire cover, and as much else as he can cram into 80 minutes. Of course, it doesn’t take anywhere near 80 minutes to get to Carleton, but it’s the thought that counts.

At lunch the cheerleaders are trying to peddle roses. Shaun buys one for Tina. Frank settles with informing Mikey that if he wants plants, he’s got plants at home. Mikey smirks and takes a bite of his pear. Frank hopes that means yes. Sex while stoned is almost as fun as swinging.

Frank loves his schedule for second semester. He’s only got two difficult classes, the mandatory science credit and the mandatory math. The rest is pretty basic, and more importantly it gives him a lot of time with Mikey. Third period is leadership, which he has with Mikey, his fourth period is a spare which works with the study hall class Mikey got renewed after a visit to the counselor, then lunch, and Mikey’s got a spare, which Frank can join him in, if he decides that chemistry class is a bit beyond his capabilities that day. So it’s a mixed bag when Brendon’s voice comes over the intercom and informs the school that tickets for the afternoon dance are still being sold, and the dance is the final two periods of the day, which you don’t have to attend if you are instead in the gym. And then he bursts into the first few lyrics of a Beauty and the Beast song before he gets cut off.

He looks at Mikey, who’s doodling something. Mikey’s supposed to have at least ten sketches before he decides on the first piece he wants to paint for his art class. “On one hand, we get to skip classes.”

“Wet art and photography for me, chem and woods for you. Not that great, would have been better first thing in the morning.”

He snorts. “For you maybe. Not all of us have biology and American history. But on the other hand, if we buy tickets, we actually have to go. They check attendance.”

“You know this because...”

“It was St. Patrick’s day, I was a freshman and didn’t know better. Fuck you, like you were always cool, Mr It Takes Me Months to Stop Sitting In the Library After I Get Friends.”

“Me and Gee sat in the library to _avoid_ shit like school dances, dude. And you forgot option three. Skip class.”

“Can’t. It’s only Tuesday, I need to save my skipping for when it’s most advantageous to use it.” There’s a whole strategy to it, knowing by where they are in the text whether an in class test will be coming soon, and whether or not he feels prepared to write it, what days are best for cards in the cafeteria, if he can convince Mikey to join him. Hell, from the moment they leave leadership, they’ve got almost two hours to leave the school and do something. Frank is always willing to skip in order to watch the end of a movie before Mikey needs to be back for art.

They don’t do a romantic dinner. Mikey rarely comes over before half past seven, and the Ieros are a supper at six on the dot sort of people. By the time Mikey’s texting him to open the front door, Frank is fully digested. Mikey takes a second to say hi to his parents, and then they go upstairs.

Frank makes it through half of Shaun of the Dead before he’s biting a mark onto Mikey’s neck. He can’t see the screen, but it’s the sort of movie where the dialogue is as entertaining as the scenes, and what he’s doing is better anyway. He’d listen to Saw in the background if it meant he could make all the hickeys he wanted.

Mikey, who’s got fucking impressive willpower sometimes, Frank knows he’s hard by the time they break into the pub, waits until the credits are rolling before asking “you wanna try-?”

“No man, I’m good. Maybe next time.” It’s the same thing he says every time Mikey asks if he wants to bottom and by now it’s probably starting to feel like an empty promise to Mikey, but it’s easier trying to put it off than making himself expose himself like that, do that again.

“We should fuck in the shower,” Mikey suggests.

“Dude, my parents!”

“Fuck off, like you’ve never jerked off in the shower. Wetted your willie, spanked the monkey, said hello to Mrs Palmer-”

“I appreciate a good euphemism just as much as the next person, really, I do. But I’m hard, you’re hard, and the shower is not going to happen with my parents home. Wait until Sunday morning, and then we’ll party ‘til the water turns icy. But right now I just want to suck you off, okay?” Frank thinks it’s a fair request. It has been more than twelve hours, after all. Besides, sometimes he doesn’t want to actually fuck. Sometimes Frank hates Mikey a little bit for how much he likes it, when Frank will never have that.

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to defend my virtue?” Mikey smirks, unzipping his jeans and slouching back until his head is resting against the wall.

“I guess you could. Watch any horror movie, the virgin always lives.” Frank’s shifting, crawling into his stomach, blankets bumpy underneath him, and fuck, he’ll have to wash them later, but that’s later, and completely irrelevant to the way Mikey’s cock is struggling against his underwear.

“Yeah, but I’ve always wanted to be impaled on a deer head.”

Frank snickers and pulls the elastic down to get a chance at Mikey’s dick. He swirls his tongue around the head once before replying “Partial to face being frozen with nitrogen and then shattered, but each to his own.”

Mikey’s laugh is cut off with a groan as Frank moves to take the entire length of his cock in one smooth movement. Frank fucking loves this, every single part of this moment. He loves how Mikey’s panting sounds, he loves the feel of hot flesh rubbing against the roof of his mouth, he loves having sex with someone that doesn’t think it’s weird to be having horror movie flashbacks _while_ having sex. There’s nothing about this moment that isn’t awesome, and while Valentine’s Day could never be Halloween, it might be edging in on Christmas.

*

Athletic Leadership is the most ludicrously easy course Frank has ever taken at Carleton. Essentially it’s a credit for people that need to fulfill their credit number requirements, and will never pass anything that demands thought, or capability to form full sentences. It’s a bit like study hall, except for jocks rather than mental patients.

What it boils down to is a second class of grade twelve gym. It actually has grade twelve gym as a prerequisite, which is sort of ridiculous. Prerequisites are for things like you can’t take autoshop until you take metal smithing, because it’s impossible to make your own carburetor if you can’t use a welding gun. Or at least that’s what Frank assumes happens in metal smithing, watching Hostel and his subsequent fear of blowtorches made it entirely impossible for him to take the course. Gym does not need a pre-req, as far as he's concerned. It’s not like grade twelve badminton is any more demanding than freshman year badminton.

The way they skirt around it being almost identical in curriculum is by promoting it as teaching leadership. It’s basically a self taught course, they have to form their own teams and remember regulations. Technically there’s a teacher, but in the two months Frank’s been in AL, he’s left his office all of twice. There’s also an end of the year assignment; in pairs of two or three they have to create their own sport or game, and make the rest of the class play. He and Mikey already have a tentative list of five or six, although Frank suspects that trying to get everyone to run a hundred metre dash for people with no direction won’t work out well, because it’s not like Chamber Mulligan has ever heard of Monty Python in his life.

Right now Frank doesn’t care about the class being lax. He doesn’t want to play fucking volleyball, even though he’s played it a hundred times and actually sort of likes it, beyond it being an easy credit. All he wants to do is curl up and die. In lieu of that as a true possibility, at least until he gets home, he does the next best thing. He goes to the side of the metal bleachers and crawls under them. It’s dark and disgusting, so it matches his mood perfectly.

Frank knows from sophomore gym that the last class of the day is responsible for retracting the bleachers back against the wall, as well as taking down any free standing equipment. So it stands to reason the custodian has never washed this part of the floor. He presses his forehead on the underside of one of the stairs and draws swirls in the grime. His team has to be waiting for him, but fuck them. Perfecting his strike is just about the last thing on his mind.

It’s Cash that finally comes over. He’s a tool -what kind of ass tries to call himself Cash?- but he’s sort of a cool tool, and has somehow convinced everyone to use the nickname. He doesn’t join Frank, just squats until he’s almost at eye level. “What’s up?”

“I just got broken up with.” Fuck, saying it is like razorblades coming out of his throat.

“Shitty. I can see why you wouldn’t care about volleyball then. Who’d you get dumped by?”

“Seriously?” It’s not like he and Mikey were ever subtle about their relationship. Frank can remember more than one hallway kiss.

“You’re the centre of your universe, not everyone else’s dude. I have no idea who your girlfriend was. But if you’re here, all suited up in gym uniform she obviously just broke up with you, which means she’s obviously in this class.” Cash swivels a bit and Frank can only imagine he’s scoping out the girls in the class. “Was it Amy? She’s sort of an addict. She’ll decide she wants to be with you when she comes down. Or goes back up, whatever.”

It’s like some punishment from above, having to discuss a relationship after it’s over. _Over_ , Frank shudders as the word rings through his brain. “No. For starters I’m gay.”

“Really?”

“I protested on gay silence day.”

“What the fuck is that? Did Ryan Seacrest not show up on a episode or something?”

Frank stares at him. Seriously? Jesus fuck, the fucking people in this school. Cash’s stupidity is almost enough to distract him, except for the part where nothing will ever stop him from repeating the last five minutes over and over again.

Cash shrugs and reaches out to pat Frank’s shoulder. “Well, you just stay here. We’ll play in rounds. Don’t worry about it.”

Frank wants to laugh. Like he’s fucking _worried_ about who will replace him in _volleyball_ right now. He doesn’t. It’s not so much that he’s worried about being the lunatic that rocks himself back and forth and laughs eerily monotonously, because descending into madness doesn’t seem like that poor of an option. It’s just he’s not sure someone won’t get the coach to deal with the crazy kid sitting under the bleachers, and if the coach comes he’ll immediately pass on the problem to the guidance counselor, so he can go back to his office, doing whatever the fuck it is gym teachers do. Meanwhile, in the guidance office, after a few aborted attempts to talk, she will most likely call his fucking _parents_ , and Frank cannot handle that shit. Less the straw that broke the camel’s back and more sewage pouring into open wounds caused from walking into a bear trap.

The hell of it is Mikey was right. _Is_ right, it’s fucking crazy to think of Mikey in past tense. He’s not dead, he hasn’t ceased to exist just because they’ve split up. If he needs proof of that, he’ll get it in half an hour, when he has to go into the locker room and change and no longer has the right to ogle Mikey. Their relationship wasn’t equal, and he never did listen to Mikey’s attempts at making it equal. To be fair though, it wasn’t like he knew not bottoming was a deal breaker. If Mikey had actually called him out on it, told Frank how much it was pissing him off, Frank likes to think he would have dealt with it. Heartfelt conversations, or some shit. But Mikey just suggested, on occasion, only making a statement when it was too late, when the statement was ‘I can’t do this anymore’.

*

Frank finds out during his spare. He’s not in the mood to play Spoons, there’s nothing about sitting in a circle with a bunch of guys elbowing for one of the treasures laid out on the floor that appeals to him right now. Of course, there’s poker and rummy, and the guys that sit around trading their iPods to impress each other with the rare b-sides they’ve tracked down, but he isn’t in the mood for bluffing, or strategising, or complimenting. He really isn’t in the mood for anything at all.

If he had his way, he wouldn’t even be here. His parents don’t understand the gravity of the situation. They only let him skip one day. Seeing as it was the only time they’d ever let him skip he should have been impressed. But given his heartache Frank thought he had grounds for skipping the rest of the year. One day doesn’t seem like much in comparison.

His first move after leadership is to go straight to the smoking doors. He’s been having a smoke between every period since Mikey dumped him, it helps take the edge off. But the one he needs most is after AL, after being stuck in a room with Mikey for nearly an hour and not being able to acknowledge him. The price of a pack every two days -it would be more, but his parents acknowledgment of his upset is mainly proved by letting him bum smokes and smoke inside- is worth the slight soothing it gives him.

After sucking it to the filter, Frank goes to the library. Mikey will be there, but if he sits on the couch beside the reference desk he won’t be able to see him, and it’ll be quiet. The moment he steps into the caf people will try to recruit him into their game, nobody bothers him in the library. He just wants to sit with his headphones on, blasting Bouncing Souls loud enough to cause deafness in his middle aged years.

Frank’s partially right. Mikey’s there, of course. But instead of alone, he’s with Pete. Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump. Frank does an about face and follows the exact path back out to the smoking doors.

Somehow he makes it to lunch. It’s windy but Frank nestles into the corner, cigarette protected by the brick wall on one side and the metal doors on another. He methodically smokes through the rest of his pack. He can practically feel his lungs shrivelling with each of the nine, but the only other option is to break down and start sobbing, and that’s not really an option at all.

Once the package is finished he paces outside the cafeteria doors. It’s impossible to tell if his racing heart is due to the nicotine overdose, if he’s lightheaded because he can’t stop moving and his heart isn’t beating fast enough to get the oxygen where it needs to go, or if it’s because of the other thing. The bell rings, a massive noise right beside Frank’s ear. It bangs directly on Frank’s exposed nerves, like scraping his skin with razors and a rinse of lemon juice.

John is the first one to come up to him, his smile fading as he takes in Frank’s short pacing, three steps and a turn, three steps and a turn. Zoe and Tina are in media with him, their discussion on a project cuts off too. Frank used to care about killing the happiness of a person, but he hasn’t cared much recently, and right now it doesn’t matter at all.

“John we need to go.” It comes out frantic, like he’s cracking up after ingesting bad coke.

“What?”

“I need a smoke. I need a smoke more than I have ever needed a smoke before in my life. And if I smoke by myself there’s no telling what I’ll do so I need a smoking buddy slash babysitter.”

“Dude, what? Why? I thought you were getting over him.”

There’s nothing in John’s sentence that makes any sense at all, or is anything near the truth. Frank grabs onto the straps of his backpack and clings to them so he doesn’t descend into hysterics. “I can’t tell you until I can’t feel my face anymore.”

“That bad huh? Okay.”

“I’m coming. Some shit you need to hear from a girl.” Frank doesn’t want any advice, and chances are fairly high that Zoe will come up with something, but he lets her come anyway. He’s too energetic to come up with a coherent argument for her staying at school, and he’ll _need_ to argue if he wants to convince her.

*

Frank exhales into the dimly lit basement and watches as the fan dissipates the cloud. “I told you why he broke up with me, right?”

“If the answer is either a, you refused to let him fuck you, or b, you refused to talk him about fucking, the answer is yes. The answer is about a million times. But if you want rant again go for it. That’s why we’re here.”

“John!” Zoe elbows John, the gesture made much more hard by the way the pot makes her sway her whole body into the movement.

“What? I’m being supportive! I said he could keep telling us.”

“That’s not supportive! You suck John, stop sucking.” Zoe slides from the couch to the floor, tugging one of the cushions after her. “Frank, his suckage does not speak for me, alright?” Frank shrugs. He thinks it’s pretty supportive. Maybe girl brains work differently.

“Not that I really oppose skipping to get stoned. But is that all this is? You wanting to rant more?”

Frank shakes his head, for a moment just enjoying how his bangs fly in the machine created breeze. “Mikey got a new boyfriend.”

“Aww fuck, really?”

Frank nods, which plays with his hair completely differently. “He’ll never break up with him either. He’s everything he could want.”

“How do you know?” Zoe asks.

“Because he’s fucking the school whore, man.” Fuck is he glad he’s stoned. If this is how much it hurts to say it stoned, he can only imagine how much worse this conversation would have been sober and trying to choke down french fries at the lunch table.

“Pete Wentz? Seriously?” John doesn’t sound surprised, and Frank guesses he shouldn’t have been either. Pete’s not exactly the guy you trust to keep his dick in his pants.

“And whoever else comes with.” Frank adds bitterly. Really, it’s the perfect solution for Mikey. It’s not like Pete would care if Mikey went out each night for mutual handjobs at the bar, not when he’s got Ashlee and Patrick and everyone else.

“I don’t think Pete is a whore,” Zoe announces flopping back the pile of cushions and pillows she’s collected from the various armchairs.

“You’re the only one in the world Zoe.” John says it with kindness.

“No, really. Even if you take out the whores get paid for sex part, he’s still sleeping with usually the same people.”

“He’s sleeping with multiple people at once!” Frank rolls his eyes. The concept of whorishness isn’t that hard to understand.

“That’s not being a whore, that’s polygamy.”

“Is that one of your porn things?” Frank’s starting to get pissed. Zoe defending his now arch enemy isn’t exactly what he wanted from leaving and smoking up.

“If I start to explain how it’s not a porn thing, it’s got roots in multiple religions and multiple places in history you’re not going to listen, so, whatever.”

“Yeah, really not going to listen to you try to tell me why Pete fucking Mikey is actually a great and awesome thing. Fuck sakes Zoe. I mean-”

“I’m going to pack another bowl,” John interrupts. “Who wants in?”

“John, I’m so in I’m like, inside the bowl.” Which is possibly not the most clever thing he’s ever said, but it’s not fair to judge his witty comebacks right now. He should be saving them up, anyway, right? He’s watched enough tv to know that every set of rivals needs to come with harsh banter, rolled in cutting slights and backhanded compliments. Why waste them on John or Zoe?

*

Back when Frank used to care about things, his favourite class was sociology. A lot of students didn’t really appreciate it, it was a note heavy class and at the end of March B F Skinner’s theory wasn’t what most of the seniors cared about. Operant conditioning wasn’t narrowing down between what places had accepted you to the one place you would go, it wasn’t planning out accommodations or trying to decide what the fuck you were going to do if you didn’t get accepted to the place you wanted. But Frank found it fascinating. There were a ton of different theories about why people did what they did, and he wanted to learn them all.

Even better than reading over his notes and googling for more information is asking Mr Skiba. Unlike most of the teachers, he writes the notes on the overheard as he’s reading them aloud, which makes it feel like he’s engaged in the material. When he asks for hypotheticals he seems genuinely interested in the answer, and the few times that someone brings up an idea that isn’t in the notes Mr Skiba can easily reply with ‘that’s a Jungian concept, you might want to go talk to Mr Grant about it, but here’s what I know about it’, instead of getting upset about his lesson being derailed.

His obvious humanity, as compared to some of the teachers Frank’s had, is why it doesn’t surprise Frank that Mr Skiba notices something. Of course, Frank maybe makes it easy, the class has been over for three minutes and he still hasn’t left his seat yet. He’s not sure exactly why he hasn’t gotten up. It’s not just that AL is his next class, and there’s nothing he dreads more than that first moment of seeing Mikey, where his stomach still heats happily before he remembers and the world comes crashing down again. It just feels like all the things in the world will attack him at once if he leaves. It’s ridiculous but true, and there’s probably a better phrasing for it than Frank vs Everything Ever. He thinks Joe would know, but Joe leads directly to Pete and Patrick and Ashlee and Mikey and that is not a place he wants to delve any deeper than is already on his mind.

“Frank are you okay?” Frank doesn’t look up from his desk, but Mr Skiba’s fingers are pressed lightly on the edge of it, fingers bent slightly backwards to the first knuckle.

“No.” It’s the truth, even if it does seem overly dramatic when he says it out loud.

“Do you need the nurse or a guidance counsellor?”

“No.” He’s not sick, and there’s nothing that she can say that will make things better.

“Frank, I’ve got class this period, but if you want to come back and talk at lunch, you can.” Frank knows he’s right, any second now the teens are going to start trickling in. He’s probably sitting in someone’s desk, some guy that’s going to be glaring at him because he still needs to rush his homework for the first fifteen minutes of class so he can hand it in at the end, or some girl that glares because she just wants to sit down and gossip with her friends about something that happened last period.

“Yeah, I dunno. Maybe.” He zips up his binder and puts it in his backpack. He tries to ignore that his hands are shaking, and Mr Skiba doesn’t say anything about it, so it’s fine.

Frank doesn’t want to talk, he just wants everything to have not happened. He’s talked about everything a hundred times over with his friends, and they just don’t get it. They’re all dating, all happy, and they think Frank going to talk to Mikey will solve everything. He’s not exactly sure why he ends up outside 207, but he suspects it’s that. Mr Skiba is a teacher, which means he’s old enough to understand that not everything can have a happy ending.

Mr Skiba is sitting at his desk when Frank walks in. He’s not grading papers or anything, just sitting and reading a book. It’s old enough that when he reaches for his stainless steel bottle the cracked spine keeps the page open. He tilts his head to take a swallow and that’s when he sees him. “Frank, you came.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Do you want to sit down, or...”

Frank grabs one of the blue plastic chairs and pulls it close to the desk. “Do you always sit alone eating in here, or is this because of me? Am I keeping you from-” Frank doesn’t know what to call them, he’s not sure if the teachers consider each other friends, or just colleagues. “staff room stuff?”

“On and off. It can get pretty noisy there, sometimes I like the quiet here. Or sometimes a student needs me to explain a concept, so I have them swing by so I can help. So what’s wrong?”

“I broke up with my boyfriend over the most stupid thing. It’s been a month and I still want him back.” Frank is happy Mr Skiba doesn’t react at all to the pronoun but then he didn’t really expect anything different. Skiba’s too cool to be homophobic.

“Have you tried talking to him?”

Christ, so much for him having the wisdom of being at least a decade older than his friends. “It’s not the talking that matters, it’s whether or not we can fuck.”

Mr Skiba’s eyes flare open a bit, but his voice stays with the same smooth calmness he always uses in class as he says “Frank, if he’s pressuring you in any way-”

“He’s not because we’re not dating. And he wasn’t either. I didn’t mean it like _that_.” Frank puts as much emphasis on the last word as he can. Just because he’s frustrated and upset with all of it doesn’t mean that he’s going to let other people think Mikey’s some sort of rapist. “I meant he broke up with me because I refused to bottom.”

“Frank this isn’t really an appropriate conversation.”

“My friends think I should just talk to him, tell him I miss him and want him back. He’s dating this asshole bastard slut, and even if Mikey thinks that’s what he wants, he’s way better than someone like that. He could catch something!” There’s not a question in Frank’s mind that Pete and Patrick and Mikey are fucking, and that’s different than what happens in a bar. Handjobs are the safest sex you can have, but if Patrick blows Mikey, than that’s fluid exchange, and sex ed proves that Pete’s a dirty whore and Mikey will get syphilis and die of brain swelling. “But I can’t just go and tell him, they don’t get it, he broke up with me because we weren’t compatible, and even if I want him, I’ll have to let him fuck me and I-”

“Frank, seriously, I can’t have this conversation with you. I wish I could, it sounds like you need help and I wish I could help you. But teachers cannot talk to students about their sex lives. I can’t. Nobody can, not Mr Grant or Mr Andriano or Mrs Palmer. We’d get suspended, fired, arrested, and featured on CNN. Maybe not in that order but...” Mr Skiba trails off.

“Fine. Fine, just fucking fine.” Motherfucking goddamn _figures_. Frank stands, chair making an ugly noise as it scrapes backwards against the floor from the sudden movement.

“Frank-”

“Stop. You don’t want to talk, so fuck off and stop talking. Alright? Fuck.” Mr Skiba could give him a detention for his language and disrespect, but he won’t, which only pisses Frank off more. If you’re going to be a dick, you should be a straight up dick instead of fucking with people’s heads. He doesn’t wait to hear any more, just grabs his bag by one of the straps and walks out, slamming the door behind him. The crashing noise isn’t nearly satisfying enough.

*

Frank realises his mistake as he comes in from his lunch smoke. Shaun’s sitting with a pile of gift bags in front of him. Seven to be exact. “I didn’t forget, it’s just not here” he says by way of introduction.

“Whatever. Just gimme your pudding and we’ll call it even.” Shaun replies.

“No seriously, I did get you something. This isn’t an episode of Simpsons where I spaced and will end up getting you Santa’s Little Helper.”

“Technically he didn’t forget, he just blew his money gambling.”

Frank rolls his eyes at Neil. “Whatever. Point is, I’m just shitty in the morning, I forgot to put it in my bag.”

“Fine, then gimme your pudding as apology for forgetting.”

“There’s no way I’m going to join the table with my pudding intact is there?”

“Probably not and even if you sit down chances are some dude with a ski mask and a gun will come in and be like your pudding or your life. At least if you hand it over the gun will be on my temple, not yours, right?”

Frank drops his backpack onto the table, fishes in onehandedly until he finds the paper bag, and pulls out the tupperware container. It’s light green, which means that he’s giving Shaun pistachio. All in all, not the worst flavour to give up. Frank would have cut Shaun rather than give up white chocolate or cheesecake.

*

The original plan was for Frank to just put the present in his backpack before bed so he didn’t have to worry about spacing in the morning. But John and Zoe and Tim and Kelly are out playing mini-golf and sometimes there really is such a thing as a fifth wheel. It feels like he’s watched every video on Youtube, and he doesn’t want to go over to Neil’s to watch more, so instead after dinner he just gets on the bus and rides until he’s near enough Shaun’s work to walk the rest of the way. It’s pretty much the perfect place for the guy, Flipped Pages sells comics, manga, and if you talk to Donetello there’s a underground trade of doujinshi. It’s actually how Shaun met Tina; she’d heard of Flipped Pages as a source but asked the wrong guy.

“See! It’s not even belated! I demand a pudding cup!” Frank bellows as he walks into the store, his shout far more effective than the wind chime near the draft of the door

‘What flavour?” It isn’t a voice Frank recognises as Shaun, Don, or Kenny but he’s sure he knows it. He eyes the room slowly, looking for a customer he knows among the display cases. “I’m partial to butterscotch myself.”

Frank sees the owner of the voice and wants to bolt. He would be on Frank’s list of five people he never wanted to be in a room with again, except it never would have occurred to him to add him. The words don’t seem provocative, unless there’s an undercut Frank can’t hear. Frank hopes there isn’t, that this isn’t the start of something. He doesn’t want to have to fight him. He’d probably win but it would be lame, and it would make a mess that Shaun would have to clean, and that’s just not cool to do to someone on their birthday. So he answer as nice as possible ‘I like banana best’ then he scoots past him to the back of the store.

Shaun’s standing at the cash register, slowly reading a doujinshi. It’s obvious it’s a poorly produced fanwork, from the two pages Frank can see the art is shit and Shaun’s snickering means the dialogue isn’t very good. Sometimes when Frank visits they hold a dramatic reading of one, Don watching and applauding at the appropriate times. Frank is nowhere near that mood now though.

“You didn’t tell me Gerard fucking Way worked here!” His voice is quiet enough to not attract attention of the man, but Frank’s sure his fury is still properly expressed.

“Who?” Frank gesticulates wildly, his finger eventually pointing at Gerard. “Oh, Gee. I didn’t know that was his last name. Shit, you telling me he’s Mikey’s brother? Small world.”

Frank slams the gift on the glass display case, the stein inside thunking heavily. “Open your fucking present, I need to get out of here.”

And like he’s some sort of stealthy vampire, Gerard is right behind him, replying “No you don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re leaving because you think I’m going to cause drama over Mikey or something, then you don’t need to leave, because I’m not. You guys broke up, now he’s dating someone else-”

Frank interrupts “yeah, total fucking cockbag. If there’s anyone you’re going to beat up, it should be him!”

“I’m not beating anyone up, Frank. You guys broke up, he’s dating Pete-”

“And Patrick and Ashlee, fucking Christ! And maybe Joe and Andy, you really can’t tell with-”

“Come on, man. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. Me and Mikey talk, and if it makes him happy than I’m glad he’s doing it. That’s that.”

“He’s happy though? About everything, not just the jackass? Where’d he get into college?” Fuck, he is so fucking weak. He shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t need to know if Mikey is happy. It’s been five weeks since Mikey dumped him, he shouldn’t care about him any more.

“I don’t think we should be colluding with my brother’s information.”

Frank crosses his arms. “It’s not really a secret, I could find out from his friends.”

“So why don’t you?”

There’s a challenging lilt in Gerard’s voice, and since he's already mad at himself for being so pathetic the tone is enough to make Frank snap. “Because it is fucking traumatizing to talk to them and this is just as bad but at least it’s already started! I might as well get use out of it.”

Gerard looks at him for a second than says quietly “A few places, but he’s going to Rutgers.”

“What? So am I! Can you tell him if he asks?”

“Yeah sorry man, no. He wouldn’t know to ask and I’m not telling him. Everyone needs to do their own thing, dwelling’s never helpful.” It’s the kindest way Frank’s heard ‘get the fuck over him’ yet, which may or may not say something about the empathic capacities of his friends. The words are true, nothing that Frank didn’t know himself, and somehow still crushing. For as short a time as Frank had had, mere seconds, it had been long enough for full fantasies of sharing a room with Mikey and having coffee always brewing on an illegal hotplate, and fucking before first class, and a million other pathetic things. His eyes are closed, but he can feel Gerard looking at him, he can feel the dagger edged sympathy slicing at him.

“Happy birthday Shaun. I gotta go. See you tomorrow.” Frank doesn’t wait for a response, just rushes out the door and starts walking to the bus stop. He needs a fucking smoke.

*

Frank flips to the end of the textbook. It’s impossible to cheat using the answers in the back, it only gives you the number, and every piece of homework always demands you show your work. Still, it’s useful enough for knowing if he’s right, because chances are if his number is correct than the way he solved the problem is the right method.

Claire slips into class at the last possible moment, she’s not even in her seat when the buzzer goes off. But it’s April seventeenth, they’ve got less than two months until graduation, and there are only a few teachers throughout all of Carleton hard-assed enough to give a detention for something so slight. She twists in her seat to face Neil beside her, and Tina behind him, and Frank beside Tina as Mr Mack starts attendance. “Congratulations to us. We are now the average American high school.”

“What, someone pulled a gun?” Frank asks. The idea of it hardly phases him. They’re on the first floor, they can probably break through the window and run to safety.

“Couldn’t have, we didn’t go into lock down.” Neil answers.

“No, not yet, but maybe they’re on the other side of the school? But you think if someone was going to do it it would be in March, after a rejection letter.” It’s possibly not fair for Frank to be ascribing a school shooter persona to Joe, but it’s not like it’s impossible to imagine him freaking out about not getting in where he wanted and taking out the entire school.

“Bullshit, it’s always about bullying.” Neil argues. Frank disagrees. Most of the time it’s about bullying, but sometimes people are just psychopaths, and sometimes people have blackouts or meltdowns. There’s such a thing as criminally insane, after all. He’s about to make the point when Claire speaks up again.

“Moving on from Michael Moore-”

“Yeah, into Maury,” Tina interrupts. Claire glares at her. “What, I heard it too! I didn’t spoil it, I’m still letting you say it.”

“We’ve got a pregnant girl.”

“Shit, really?” Frank honestly can’t think of something more horrible than throwing away your entire future because of lack of a condom. Assuming she’s keeping it. If Frank was a girl, he’d never consider it, not for a split second.

“Statistically speaking, in a school with approximately a thousand girls there’s probably more than one.”

“Yes, but she’s the only one not using the coat hanger and clumsiness around the stairs method.” Claire answers Neil.

“So she’s keeping it? Who is she, do we know her?”

“She’s in my photography class. It’s been floating around all day but I got it confirmed last period.”

“You just asked her?” Frank’s not sure he’d have the balls to ask.

“Frank, if she’s keeping it she sure as hell can’t be shy about talking about it. Yeah I asked her, apparently the father doesn’t give a shit. But her parents would kick her out of the house if she got rid of it, so she’s got no choice.”

Tina shakes her head. “She’s got a choice, she’s just copping out by blaming her parents. I would never agree to that shit, not for them, not for anyone.” Coming from Tina it’s a bit rich to hear mockery of following a parent’s wishes, but Frank thinks if he was a girl he’d do the same. “Fuckin’ Rebekah.”

“Wait. Rebekah? As in Rebekah-” Shit, he doesn’t know her last name to clarify.

“As in Rebekah, your last pathetic attempt to be straight? Yeah, that Rebekah. Are you sure you’re not the uncaring father?”

“Fuck off!” Frank exclaims in horror.

“Frank, language and volume, alright? A work period means you need to pretend to be working.”

Frank apologises to Mr Mack and takes a look at problem five in contrition. He can’t concentrate on what it’s asking of him. The girl Frank could have dated in another world -a nightmare world where he hadn’t realised, or had but was too ashamed to cut things off before they started to follow his real wishes, an easily imaginable alternate world- is pregnant. It’s like a slap in the face. An entire life springs to mind, married and with fucking kids and a mortgage, wearing prissy suits and worrying about saving enough for retirement. It’s a full fledged horror in his head, enough to make him shudder like spiders are crawling over his skin. If it’s not what he wants, he’s gotta do something about it. He can’t let normalcy and complacency win. He’ll do what it takes.

At school the next morning, the plan seems less foolproof. But it doesn’t seem any less important to try, and that’s what matters. It’s time to put up or shut up. It’s time to make a move to get what he wants, or end up married and trapped. Because sure he can _say_ he’ll never let that happen, but the only way he _knows_ it won’t is by running in the opposite direction as fast as he can.

So he gets to school earlier than normal, and heads straight for Mikey’s locker. Frank doesn’t care how long it takes for Mikey to come, he’ll sit on the speckled with dirt floor until three thirty if he has to.

It doesn’t take that long. Mikey walks down the hallway, Pete beside him. Frank waits until Mikey twirls his combination and gets his locker open before rushing over to him. They’re talking about something, but manners are not the most important thing in this situation, he can’t wait for a natural pause in the conversation. “Mikey, I fucking love you okay? And I know you broke up with me and I still don’t want you to fuck me, it fucking sucked and I didn’t like it and I don’t know about you but once I realise I hate something I don’t want to do it again. But Jesus Christ, dude, I’d let you tear me apart every fucking night if you’d date me again. It might have taken me like two months to realise it but we still have another six weeks before graduation so fuck, please. You can fuck me, I’ll prove that I’m okay with it.”

Mikey slams his locker closed before whirling around. He looks distinctly unimpressed, and Frank’s heart plummets. “So, what, you’re auditioning? Frank, it wasn’t just the not switching. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to fuck you. But it wasn’t just that. Every fucking time I brought it up you lied or tried to distract me. You acted like a total bitch, Frank. I don’t date pussies.”

Frank wants to point out that before him Mikey didn’t date anyone. Then he thinks that it’s too confrontational for a conversation meant to get Mikey back in his arms. And then he thinks not saying it out loud sort of proves Mikey’s point that he’s a pussy too scared to say anything important. “Before me you didn’t date anyone!”

“So he made up the rule on the fly. Seems like a solid rule dude.”

Frank turns to look at Pete, cocky and grinning with his fucking horse teeth all over the place. He grounds out through a gritted jaw, “Shut. Up.”

“I’m just saying, man.”

Frank revels in the pain that blossoms in his hand as he punches Pete in the face. It’s the sweetest kind of pain, triumphant.

“Oh, that’s what were doing?” Pete asks rhetorically before striking back. It’s a solid hit and Frank maybe belatedly remembers he’s seen Pete in all the same mosh pits he’s been in, that Pete has the same pain tolerance he does, which his normally his winning factor, because he just doesn’t care if someone hurts him, as long as he hurts them more. But Pete runs on the same fuel, he knows it from the bars, he knows it from the little he’s gleaned from Joe. Frank’s maybe in a bit over his head. That doesn’t mean he’s going to bitch out.

They only have a minute before the crowd that gathers is enough to attract teachers. First it’s Harper, screeching _what is going on_ at the top of her lungs, each word over enunciated. It’s like a bat signal for the stronger teachers, moments after she clips off the ‘n’ there are arms around his chest, pulling him back. Molko’s got Pete, which looks ridiculous. Mr Molko is as effeminate as teachers come, and he’s actually shorter than Pete. But it works, the moment his arms are around Pete he subdues immediately. It only takes a twist of his spine -he’s being held hard enough to keep him from bursting out of the hold, but not hard enough for bruises and a lawsuit- to figure out Skiba’s got him.

And that’s when Patrick comes running down the hall. Frank’s still struggling to get out of Skiba’s hold, but he’s watching everyone else, trying to figure out who’s going to be on his side if he can start fighting again, who’s going to try to stop him. Patrick’ll obviously be on Pete’s side, he doesn’t even look all that surprised to see Pete being cradled by Mr Molko. Still he asks, “what the shit?”

“Frank,” Mr Skiba says lowly, “If I let you go and you go for him, you’ll be suspended. I know you got into Rutgers, a suspension for violence is not going to look good.”

It is fucking infuriating that Molko has already let go of Pete, and Pete is just standing there. Not even telling him to bring it with his eyes, Pete’s are glazed and dead. Pete started _everything_ , and Patrick’s attempting to link his fingers into his, while Pete just stands there frozen, and he looks like such an innocent that if Frank tries to finish what he started _he’ll_ be the bad guy. “This is fucking bullshit.”

“Be that as it may, Frank, do you really want to let being pissed off ruin your chance to get into college?”

That gets to him. While having Mikey to get tattoos with and smoke up with and go on roadtrips every few months was a sure bet to not slide into suburban idiocy, a great first step into that life is a tedious minimum wage job at a supermarket because he didn’t manage college. “I won’t touch the jackass.”

“Frank, are-”

“I’m not going to fucking touch him, let me the fuck go!” Frank snaps. Skiba’s arms uncurl, releasing him, and Frank tugs his shirt down.

“Patrick, Pete has detention after school today. Or tomorrow, if he can’t make today,” Mr Molko calls out, and Patrick waves the hand that’s not slowly leading Pete down the hall. “Frank, yours will be in my classroom after my last period.”

What the shit is that? How does Pete get to pick a day, and his isn’t a choice? It’s proof that life is unfair, and assholes always win. Frank nods once, not trusting himself to not burst into a stream of profanity that will get him a second detention. He scans the hallway. There are a ton of gawkers slowly drifting away now that the fight is done and the repercussions are meted out, but he doesn’t see Mikey anywhere. Fucking Pete, making him fuck up his last chance.

*

Frank’s almost down to the filter of his cigarette when the door opens behind him. He exhales and lets out a grunt in hello, they’re all a community of sorts.

“Didn’t you used to just smoke at lunch?”

Frank doesn’t need to turn his head to recognise Mikey. It’s been nine days of silence since the drama in the hallway, and it doesn’t make sense that Mikey’s breaking it now just to ask him about his addictions, but fuck it. Might as well give an honest answer, and if it prickles him, all the better. “Yeah, but when the stress levels go up, so does the need for nicotine, so.”

“Wouldn’t know. Gee just smokes like a chimney regardless. Look, Frank-” Mikey trails off. Frank does not want to hear a ‘stay away from my boyfriend threat, and thinks it’s a bit late for it anyway. That conversation could have happened last Wednesday. “Frank, do you want to go to prom?”

What. The fuck. Of all the possible thing Mikey could have said, that’s as low on Frank’s list of expected inquiries as ‘want to be eaten by grizzlies?’ and ‘want to be astronauts?’ “Prom? I feel like there should be some kind of ballady happy Muzak in the background.”

“No, let’s save Sixpence None The Richer for the movie they’ll write about you after you get famous.”

“For what? I don’t even know what I’m taking in college, never mind being good enough at something to be famous enough to have an autobiography that’ll get produced into a movie.”

“Fine then, I’ll be famous.” Mikey’s hand gropes into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette of his own. Frank lights the end, Mikey’s hand curling around the opposite side to protect it from the breeze.

Frank watches him take a few drags before he asks the primary thought running through his head. “You’re not going with Pete and Patrick and Ashlee, and fuck, whoever else comes attached?” Frank’s rather impressed with how level his voice is.

“I broke up with them a while ago.” It’s only been nine days, Mikey’s clearly got a different measurement of time than he has. “I just didn’t know if I wanted you.”

“So what happened?”

“Pete told me I was a fucking moron, that of course I wanted you.” Mikey punctuates the statement with raising the cigarette to his lips and inhaling again. The underneath of his fingernails are blue, like he didn’t take more than a second to wash his hands after art class.

Frank supposes he should be happy for the push in his direction but instead “and you always listen to Pete?” comes out bitterly.

“I’m not telling you all his secrets. But the guy knows how to take what he wants in compensation for all the things he can’t have.” Frank snorts. From what he’s seen, there’s nothing Pete Wentz can’t have. He’s got a girlfriend, a few boyfriends, a car and a dozen pairs of Converse, the magical ability to convince teachers to bend the rules for him. But he’s not going to say any of it out loud, because now is not the time to get into an argument with Mikey over him.

Mikey takes a fifth drag, then presses the lit end into the brick wall. It sizzles and dies, and the stub goes back into his pocket. “So, prom?”

“I don’t know.” His response floors him. Frank’s wanted him back since March and the first chance he gets he plays hard to get? What is his brain? But the seconds in which he has to edit himself and write it off as a joke are ticking down and he spends them without replying.

“Oh. Okay. Uh. I found this great band, want me to link you to them?”

“Yeah.” Talking to Mikey on MSN will only prolong the agony of everything, but at this point he’s really brought it upon himself. And along with everything else, he’s missed Mikey’s music recs. Even if he’s got no idea what’s going on, getting a list of twenty new discographies to download will be a good thing.

“I’m going in for photography now. And you?”

“Woods.” Why is Mikey asking? He must already know, just like Frank knows all of Mikey’s classes. Frank watches Mikey head back inside, and pulls out another smoke. If he dies of lung cancer in ten years, it’s better than dying from a complete mental and physical breakdown right now.

It doesn’t leave Frank’s mind for the entirety of woods, in which he wisely chooses to stay away from the band saw and the belt sander. There are things you can do with a warped mind, like putting another coat of lacquer on a table, or gluing together different types of wood for an eventual chessboard, and there are things you don’t do if you wish to keep your thumbs. Frank needs his for video games, so he sticks to using a light grit paper to work his breadboard into softness. The moment class is over he runs for John’s car. He needs some opinions, and Hambone and Zoe are the best for that.

John’s pulling in front of his house by the time he’s done rambling. Frank peters off with the same thing he’s said a half a dozen times already. “I don’t know. Should I go to prom? Do I have to go?”

“Did you not learn your lesson with homecoming?”

“What, that crepe paper is lame?” Frank can’t think of anything else life changing, and even that’s pushing the concept of a lesson pretty hard.

“No. That even if you don’t want to, we’ll make you. So do we need to make this some super secret operation, stealing your phone and inviting Mikey pretending to be you, only to handcuff you together when you both show up at prom, or will you just shut up and go?”

Frank has no hesitation in believing that Zoe would handcuff him to Mikey. But it’s not the brilliant advice he was hoping for. He unbuckles his seat belt and jumps out of the car. He agrees to text John if he wants to hang out later and goes straight to his bedroom. He needs to think.

Except he’s not in his room five minutes before he’s got his cell phone out. Frank presses the seventh number and immediately wants to hang up, but it’s already rung once, and the only thing he can imagine that’s worse than this imminently awkward conversation is waiting for Mikey to check his phone and call back. Fuck, what if Mikey doesn’t pick up and he has to wait anyway? He’s such a fucking-

“Hey?”

“Hi. Mikey? I don’t want to go to prom with you.”

Frank can’t see it, but he’s almost certain Mikey is crossing his arms or tugging his skullcap further down. “You didn’t have to call me just to tell me that. I took your reluctance as a answer outside. Have a good night.”

Frank rushes before Mikey can hang up on him. “Wait. Can we like, not go but still spend the night together? Because homecoming really sucked, and prom is just a more expensive version of homecoming. Prom is expensive homecoming, with a shitty meal attached and renting limos and suits. Mikey, proms have suits, and nobody really wants that, do they?”

“I guess Romero is better than some DJ that thinks Ricky Martin is making a comeback any day now.”

Frank goes out on a limb. He’s almost shaking, saying it, but tries to put everything into his tone. He’s only got one more shot at this. He fucked up the first time, this needs to be clear. “Or you could come over and we could watch Survival of the Dead tonight, instead of waiting a month?”

“Frankie, Frankie, Frankie. One does not have a zombie date and watch the newest in a series! You’re lucky it’s me, Gerard would resort to fisticuffs for such an offense.” Frank sort of tunes out for a minute, Mikey’s voice in his ear in the background. He said date! A fucking _date_. Mikey’s done with Pete’s orgy party and he’s coming over for a zombie date. For the first time in two months, the world is good.

*

Frank puts his arms up and traps his hands between the back of his head and the pillow. This time he’s not going to push Mikey away, no matter what happens. Hindsight is twenty twenty, and has pleasantly informed him he was an idiot for not following through. He’s not going to fall into the same trap, he’s not going to let their relationship fall apart in another month because he won’t do this. Mikey is worth any pain.

Mikey is straddling him, slowly grinding against his cock. His lips are cherry red from their kissing when he pulls back, sitting up on some combination of his shins and Frank’s thighs and the bed. He doesn’t look thrilled. “We don’t have to do this today.”

However kind he might be trying to be, it’s not. Giving him the option to pussy out is in no way helpful, it’s like waving a forty in front of an alcoholic’s face, and then telling them it’s their choice. “Shut up and do it.”

“You lying back and thinking of England isn’t exactly making me hard.”

Which blatantly isn’t true, Frank can clearly see Mikey’s cock, big, and reddened, and about be be shoved inside him. He snaps “what do you want from me? I’m telling you to fuck me!”

“Uh, maybe for it to not be a chore or a task?”

“Well it is,” slips out before he can stop it. Fuck, he’s going to break them up again. Fuck shit fuck. In one smooth move Mikey is climbing off him, standing and grabbing his jeans from the floor. Fuck, “please don’t go!”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m just not doing this. Frank, you should put your boxers on and we’ll talk.” On various movies and sitcoms over the years, Frank’s heard it insinuated that ‘we need to talk’ means the end of a relationship. And shit, maybe it’s true. But what they had already died one death because they _didn’t_ talk, so what’s the alternative? Still, he doesn’t get off the bed to get partially dressed like Mikey, just sits up and reaches back to grab a pillow to put over his junk.

Mikey smirks and shrugs a bit, then sits on the other end of Frank’s bed. “Without getting pissed, can you just tell me why you didn’t like it? I mean, you fucked me all the time and I liked it. Tell me it’s not a masculinity thing.”

Fuck not getting mad. “Fuck you! You really think I let everything go to hell because I thought it made me a girl? Fuck you. It hurt. Not the fingering, that was just weird. But the actual fucking, that hurt. And not that I’m pulling a sexual assault card but when I asked you to stop you didn’t.”

Mikey shrugs. “Okay. I suck, and you’re tight. We can fix both these problems.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Maybe it’s a bit snotty, but Mikey can handle a bit of rudeness.

“Well, we’re twenty first century kids, right? So when in doubt, Google.”

Frank puts the pillow down and walks over to his desk. His thighs goosebump when he sits on the cold leather chair. He types in ‘how to make ass sex hurt less’ and frowns at the first twenty pages that come up. In every few sentence blurb it’s some dude asking a forum how to make his girlfriend want to try it.

“You really have no Google-fu at all, do you?” Mikey kisses his temple then digs his elbow into his shoulder so he can lean over Frank and type. Frank gets an odd flashback to their first meeting but doesn’t say anything.

“All you did was add the word gay!”

“Yeah, and there are no more fraternity jerkoffs whining about their girlfriends, are there?”

“Point.” Frank starts to read the article Mikey clicks, then his view is obscured by Mikey dropping onto his lap. Frank jabs him hard in the back. “If I can’t read it, tell me what it says, fucker.”

“You have two assholes, and the inner one is the one that doesn’t want me to fuck you. Basically I need to finger you every time I blow you, and after a while it’ll calm down. Also you should finger yourself when you jerk off.”

“Interesting. Scholarly, even. So, wanna get started on that?”

“Horny bastard,” Mikey says, but it sounds like he’s smiling. “Get back on the bed then.”

Frank waits for Mikey to climb off, then lies back down, one hand curled around his cock while the other flicks open the top of the lube. He could be poetic and say it smells of new beginnings, but it doesn’t, it’s just cherry lube. Still, he thinks things are going to get better now.

*

Frank isn’t much for school spirit, so it’s not Nate trying to sell it as one last act of rebellion and senior camaraderie that gets him. Honestly, it’s just because Nate is a little bit pathetic these days. Since Gabe, Ryland, and Elisa graduated mid year, leaving Alex, Nate and Victoria alone, they’ve all been sort of pathetic. Not that he probably has much credibility in the bad ass arena, after all the moping over Mikey. But at least his personality didn’t turn a one eighty. The decimated Cobras only tried two more spontaneous actions before giving up, going completely against the nature of the improv group to do what they want and not need the approval of others.

For Nate to try something now, after months of nothing from the Cobras, is risky. It’s cool if it happens, but if he pleads and no one but Victoria and Alex are willing to back him, it’s pathetic. Frank doesn’t think it’s fair for anyone to be pathetic on graduation day. So he pitches in that it seems like a great idea, which gets his friends on board. The idea begins to ripple through the graduating class, each vote of ‘that’s stupid’ being drowned by five that like it. They go silent as a handful of teachers walk in, all clad in dress clothes. It’s weird to see all the female teachers in dresses, even cocktail party casual ones, all the men wearing ties.

The teachers carefully line them up, lines of twenty five, and file them into the twenty rows of folding chairs, and leave them to go sit on the reserved seats. Frank can hear the parents and grandparents and little brothers and sisters on the other side of the scarlet curtain. He imagines his parents somehow stumbling into Gerard and the elusive Mr and Mrs Way and wants to laugh for the scene that creates itself. Before the curtain opens everyone takes the brief unsupervised time to reseat themselves. Really, Frank doesn’t see much rebellion in it. They’re just not in order, it’s not like they’re walking out or setting fire to the auditorium. Still, he’s happy about the mass migration. Having John on one side, Mikey on the other seems more meaningful than being between Mike Idle and Amber Ignatio.

The middle of the stage has a tiny platform and a speaker’s podium Frank knows perfectly well a few of the guys in his woods class had to make. It’s tradition for the jocks to steal it and put it in the middle of a bonfire at the after party Frank’s not invited to. He could probably still go, as he’s sure Mikey is invited, but he doesn’t really want to spend the night with several hundred teenagers crammed in a rich kid’s house. He just wants to smoke up and drink with his friends, and try to forget that by the end of the summer he has to leave them all.

The other side of the stage, stage right, has another five hundred rented folding chairs. Each chair has a name post it noted to the seat. After Hawthorne calls their name to come collect the diploma, they’re supposed to step off the platform and walk to their assigned seat. The way Frank figures it, he’ll be crossing the stage in about an hour. The ceremony is supposed to be three hours long, at least according to the gilted and embossed invitation he had to give to his parents. I is the ninth letter in the alphabet, which is a third of the way through. He gets his quick moment to take his rolled up paper and pose for pictures and his few words, and then it’s back to sitting with Mike and Amber.

Basically, Frank’s expecting three hours of sheer boredom, only relieved by the occasional amusing quote. Everyone gets the chance to say the same inspirational quote they ascribed in their yearbook entry, Hawthorne’s hand on the microphone in case someone decides to be crude or offensive. Frank’s is a lyric, of course; _but I still believe there are only a few things that really belong to me, who I am, who I was and who I want to be_. He knows most of his friends choices, but Mikey refuses to tell him his. Frank’s sure it’ll be a lyric too, there’s no way Mikey can have so much music and not have a lyric be the most important statement of his life, he just not sure what it will be. Unfortunately, considering he’s Mikey Way, it’s going to be about three hours until he learns.

The curtain opens to the entire crowd of relatives clapping for them. It’s sort of ridiculous, but in a way that feels great. Judging by the glare the principal gives them, Hawthorne seems less than impressed by the ‘rebellion’. But he chooses to save face and let them stay in their messed up order rather than close the curtains and demand they all get back into their proper seats. The glare is the last spark of interest Frank has for the next fifteen minutes. Then Victoria Asher walks across the stage and Ryland and Gabe stand on their chairs in the audience and start screaming and whistling, making a far bigger deal than her family. Hawthorne is scowling, but honestly Frank thinks he’s lucky they didn’t start acting out a scene in the aisle. When Gabe hurtles a plastic snake across the length of the room onto the stage, Victoria bends and picks it up before she takes the diploma Hawthorne is waiting to give her. Her quote is ‘fangs up’, which makes Gabe and Ryland burst into another round of cheering.

It’s obvious he’s not the only one that’s bored. Scattered throughout the graduating class are teenagers surreptitiously texting, or playing with a DS. Anyone in the front two rows are screwed, but further back than that it’s proof that teens of his generation have no focus, no patience. Somehow he doesn’t feel guilty about it; maybe his generation doesn’t have shame either? Unfortunately Frank wasn’t one of the ones smart enough to bring his cellphone, meaning that unless Tina kindly decides to share, he’s shit out of luck.

The gods are clearly smiling on him. Frank becomes certain of this fact when Mikey puts his hand on his thigh. It only stays there for a minute before it drifts, up, in. It doesn’t stop moving until it’s on top of his junk. “Mikey?”

“Just look ahead. We’re fifteen rows back, nobody’s going to see. Unless you scream out in orgasm, nobody’s going to know.” As far as whispered plans go, it’s not the most elaborate. It’s basically relying on luck. But Frank’s down with gambling, he’s played poker at Christmas with his relatives since he was nine. Mikey’s hand on him, stroking him through the graduation gown, and Frank’s not going to say no.

Douglas Cameron is giving his valedictorian speech, and Frank should be listening. It’s probably inspirational, it probably talks about heroes in and outside of the school, it probably mentions the challenges of the future in a framework of the challenges they’ve already faced. He can’t hear a word of it, all he can hear is his own panting. Mikey’s hand is on him, and Frank is doing his best to not arch up into it, because even if the audience doesn’t notice, he doesn’t want the students around him to see either.

The truth is, Frank doesn’t need to hear what wise people think about the past of high school, and the future of colleges and careers. Frank’s got his past, his own future. He’s gay, and in love, and he’s got a family, and friends that he might not lose as they scatter over the country. Things will suck, and things will be great, and most things will just be okay. And that’s enough. His eyes close as he climaxes, coming into the shorts he’s wearing under his gown. He breathes for a second, and then extends his arm. They’re only on C, he’s got more than enough time to help Mikey.


End file.
